Travel Pathology

I am always running late. Literally, I am always running because I am late. In a world where I don’t own a car, leaving late takes a physical toll since the only method to get to my destination on time, or even at all, would be running.

Each year, it becomes easier for me to let go of concerns about how the general public perceives me. For a long time, I assumed people would find me strange or sketchy if they saw me sprinting in casual clothes down a crowded street. In a way, they might be justified in thinking so. However, even if they did hold such opinions, I remain unaware of them. Throughout decades of my life, I have lived with a self-imposed limitation: if I were to be seen running in public, I need to give the appearance that it is intentional, and therefore could only run if I was sporting the appropriate athletic gear. This was to convey that my sprinting was for fitness purposes and not because I was a criminal evading punishment or someone who, I don’t know, is running late and might miss her train?

The honest truth is that I wasn’t intentionally going on a disciplined athletic run down Nicholson Street this Friday afternoon. I left late again, and as a consequence, if I don’t summon all of my athleticism and shave off five minutes of the estimated time to walk from my flat to Waverly Station, then I am going to miss the train, and my hosts for the night will be without their dinner guest.

I had to run nearly the entire mile to buy myself enough time to purchase the ticket at the station and find my platform. Fully clothed in a cute-girl-fall aesthetic and lugging an overnight bag, I weaved between crowds of people and traffic, rushed down the stairway, and planted myself in a window seat of the train with four minutes to spare.

For those of you horrified with similar concerns about public perception, allow me to assure you, I have had to frantically carry myself through public spaces loads of times, and I have yet to have a single person approach me to say, “Oh, you look like that wild, crazy girl who was sprinting down Spoolmakers Street the other day.” I will inform you if that changes, but thus far, there have been no repercussions, only an improvement in cardiovascular endurance, in my casting off of these inhibitions.

The train pulled away from the station and with relief, I snagged the two small tangerines from my bag, the reasons for nearly missing the train. Delighted with my snack (or more accurately my breakfast and lunch), I blanketed my lap with my coat and spent the lovely two-hour train ride reading my book.

The Scottish countryside transforms into a dark abyss after 5 pm during the winter months. Throughout most of the journey, I mistakenly thought we were in a tunnel. However, when I pressed my face against the window and cupped my eyes to block out the lights from within the cabin, I could occasionally spot faint and scattered streetlights in the distance. Orange in hue and so far away, they would slowly roll away into the hills and, without them, the land would resume being indistinguishable from the sky.

After the stop in Montrose, I knew the next stop would be my destination so I packed up my book and prepared to disembark. I checked my messages to see whether my hostess saw my confirmation that I made the train (no mention of the adventure of running late). And her response was that she would be waiting for me at the station when I arrived.

I was so excited that sitting down became unbearable, prompting me to leave my seat and stand at the end of the cabin, near the doors, for the remaining 15 minutes of the voyage. While awaiting for the train to slide into the station, an alarming mechanical sound filled the cabin causing passengers to swivel their heads into the aisle in search of the source. I locked eyes with a British woman positioned across from me. She sported a long, black trench coat, paired with bundled tights beneath a flowing patterned skirt, creating a professional ensemble. The polished appearance took a surprising turn with the addition of her vibrantly colored orange scarf, a piece that, I must confess, seemed remarkably cozy. Clutching a sizable tote bag, I discreetly glimpsed a novel and extra gloves snugly tucked inside.

Like bolts in a blender, the sound was loud and commanding, one that wasn’t easy to ignore, and led one to suddenly question her safety aboard this mechanical beast capable of extreme speeds. It sounded as though it was emanating from the joints of the train near the doors, directly next to where I was standing. Surveying the train interior (since as stated earlier there was no way to see outside) I found myself reading a sign on the “Staff Only” doorway.

I pondered this for a moment. Live Haggis? What business does any society have in transporting animal parts via public transportation? Could that be the source of this awful sound putting this train’s travelers on edge? My imagination compulsively conjured images of whatever animals make up haggis crammed into these seemingly tiny compartments. It must be so crowded, especially if you believed the sign that they were “live”. What did they mean by “live”? Living? Fresh? The lady standing across from me caught my eyesight.

I leaned towards the woman and confessed my ignorance, “I’m sorry, but what do they mean by ‘Live Haggis’?”

She nodded as if expecting the question. “There’s no such thing as live haggis, it’s a joke.” She smiled and continued to explain this was a little ruse of the Scottish people to mess with tourists. Tourists like myself. I smiled as the new information perfectly aligned with the characteristics I have attributed to the lovely, simple, hardy people I have come to know in this part of the world.

Moments later, our conversation was broken up by the imposing ominous sound of mechanical failure demanding attention. The short and kindly ticket master marched down the train carriage, heading directly toward me. However, instead of unlocking the enigmatic door adorned with a professionally printed inside joke, he turned towards adjacent sliding door and began pushing and pulling it into place until the noise finally subsided. “Sometimes the automatic motor gets out of sorts.” He explained to those nearby.

The train slowed into the station moments later. Stepping off the train, I surveyed the platform for Baylee, my best friend from my earliest childhood. Would she even recognize me? I considered as I couldn’t identify anyone with her familiar features.

It has been nearly fifteen or sixteen years since we last saw each other, I calculated. In those early years, Baylee and I had countless sleepovers and playdates. She was my closest friend, perhaps my entire childhood. Sometime when I was ten or eleven, life circumstances tore us apart and we had minimal means of contact. I was not entirely sure of the very last time we had interacted. Who would’ve thought that of all the places in the world that we would ever reunite, it would be Scotland? Nearly 5,000 miles from our hometown?

“Do you think you guys will get along the same way you did as children?” My flatmate Kylie asked me earlier this week over dinner.

“I honestly don’t know, I didn’t consider that til you said something,” I confessed to her as I made a whirlpool in my soup with my spoon. I had known she was in the area prior to arriving in the UK. Honestly, her Instagram posts were influential in my journey to pursue my postgraduate in Edinburgh. Seeing posts of her exploring the countryside was inspiring and I admired how much the background suited her; a home away from home.

I couldn’t see anyone who matched her expected profile on the platform. My new friend on the train checked in with me “Do you know where you are going?” I walked in step with her explaining that I believed my friend was waiting for me at the station. She suggested that I may find her on the other side if I follow the flow of traffic down the stairs to the other si-

My gaze lifted and she was already smiling at me. Baylee. All bundled up in a long green coat and a hat. How silly I was in my concern that I would recognize her.

“Baylee! Hi!” She greeted me with a hug and to avoid being trampled we followed the flow of traffic out of the station. I was so wrapped up in seeing Baylee for the first time in over a decade, I forgot to say goodbye to my train-lady-friend. I spotted her walking ahead of us making her way back home, she understood, no goodbye needed.

“How was the train?” Baylee asked me. Her voice sounded so different than I expected. Unlike the comforting roll of a heavy rain, as I may have fashioned it in my imagination, it was more akin to the delicate light mists that caress the landscape. We finished up our greetings by the time we left the station. “I was wondering whether you’d recognize me or not,” I confessed to her.

Her response was a smile and “How long do you think it has been?”

“I have no idea, I have a rather poor memory if I am honest.”

The flow of our conversation carried on effortlessly as we walked to her flat, which was not five minutes from the station.

Upon arrival, I noticed every bit of effort Baylee made to be a wonderful hostess. The apartment was quaint and tidy, with the air filled with the smell of spices. Baylee rushed off to prepare something in the house and called out for Tom that we had arrived. Tom emerged from the kitchen, and I eagerly introduced myself with a handshake, thanking both of them incessantly for hosting me.

That night we enjoyed a lovely dinner of curry. There was no break in conversation as we tumbled from one rich topic to the next. Postgraduate studies, the oddities of the UK, the British empire, climate change, plankton, ice, the wonders of the sea, family, growing up in suburbs. So much belly laughter and pleasant surprises as we uncovered one shared interest after another. There were times throughout the night that I was acutely conscious of my loquacious nature, but was powerless to harness it in the presence of my very first best friend.

Sitting on the floor, going through her bookcase, I felt nine again, sifting through her American Girl Doll collection. There are certain feelings of presence that only specific individuals in your life can grant, leaving fingerprints on your soul that cannot be replicated by anyone else. I began to realize that I hadn’t experienced this sense of ease in sharing myself and a carefree bearing—the way only Baylee could draw out of me—in such a long while. Being with Baylee granted me the epitome of unapologetic existence comparable to being able to run down Nicholson Street in full sprint wearing a ballgown. I could do no wrong, I was enough as I was, no need to try, just be.

In this modest and quaint flat located in a stone apartment building by the sea, a small inner child emerged once more. Baylee, uniquely, knows me from my childhood, while thankfully not witnessing the awkward middle and high school years when I struggled to find belonging. She remains unaware of all the cringy missteps I took later in my life. She didn’t wittness the years I was insecure, lost, using fake identities as shields. Baylee only knows me as the vibrant, assertive, and imaginative girl I once was. A girl I really love and I miss sometimes.

At the end of the night, they convinced me to stay for two nights instead of one. I obliged because I didn’t want to miss any opportunity to get to know each other all over again.

I woke up this morning to rain that threatened Baylee’s plans for a seaside walk to the castle.

“No it will be fine!” I said. “Proper Scottish weather.”

So the three of us bundled up and subjected ourselves to this morning’s rain storm as we navigated the muddy pathway up to Dunnotar Castle. “I haven’t visited a castle yet since being in Scotland!” I told them with all the enthusiasm I genuinely felt. Just like the night before, the entire walk was filled with conversation, but this time we had the mystical views of the seaside cliffs, much of which reminded me of my beloved Oregon Coast.

After we hiked back down the hill we decided a warm drink was in order. The couple led me to a cafe where we treated ourselves to coffee drinks. There, we devised our dinner plans to make homemade enchiladas together and watch “The Lego Movie” afterward.

“We don’t get very good Mexican food here,” Tom lamented.

Baylee apologized profusely for having to go to a choir rehearsal this afternoon but I assured her it was no trouble at all. “I brought a computer and a wonderful book, I will have no trouble being on my own for a couple of hours,” I reassured her.

I decided to visit a coffee shop on the pier, about a 20-minute walk from the flat. The afternoon presented a beautiful calmness as the ocean shimmered in blue, much like it does on the Oregon coast.

I sauntered down the little seaside town, humming to myself and appreciating the stone architecture. Stonehaven is quite lovely, another little village that escapes the attention of tourism and, as a result, has retained a sense of authenticity. The route to the coffee house took me along the beach with a broken boardwalk. I was grateful for the time to take pictures and gaze at the sea.

I stayed here at the Old Pier Coffee House until closing, listening to weather-appropriate Novo Amor. Tonight we plan to cook enchiladas, play phase 10 and watch the movie together. It will be like the good old days, plus Tom. The rich, carefree, exciting, innocent, good old days. Baylee messaged me a while ago, saying they were on their way back from choir rehearsal. If I want to meet them at the flat when they arrive, I should’ve left ten minutes ago. Once again, I find myself running late. As a result, I’ll probably dash along the boardwalk and up through the town, bundled in my yellow jacket with my backpack swinging from side to side and not a care in the world.