Travel Pathology

Sitting on the train with the rolling Scottish countryside in the background, I realize that trains are an excellent place to tackle long-delayed writing tasks. On my way to London, my grandmother is in another carriage. The train is crowded because, apparently, it is a bank holiday this weekend. Additionally, the train is delayed, giving me ample time to write a long, detailed account of the week I’ve had with my Matriarchs.

The sky is as blue as can be, which feels quite cruel after the onslaught of an 80-hour rainstorm this week. A storm that ruined all the romantic and adventurous plans I had carefully constructed in a seven-day itinerary.

Last week, both my mother and grandmother, whom I call my “Matriarchs,” visited me from the United States. In the weeks leading up to their arrival, I gleefully planned a whole week filled with walks through gardens, farmers’ markets, castle tours, and picnics on the vibrantly green grass.

Fashioning itineraries serves several purposes for me. Beyond communicating plans or helping to organize a trip, the process simulates the feeling of physically grappling with time, like grasping a bed sheet and pulling the desired hours closer. The events I cannot wait for are dragged closer because I have declared and analyzed them in an organized, guarenteed spreadsheet. We will get to do all the things, have all the fun, and it will be orderly, expected, and efficient.

The week before their arrival, Edinburgh basked in unseasonably warm weather, with highs reaching 70 degrees Fahrenheit. The glorious sunshine and lush green parks filled my head with visions of my Matriarchs and me sauntering through the city parks between tea times, like debutantes. We would enjoy fruit salads and toast with Prosecco, laughing under the maple trees. Our memories of the week would have the happy sunshine glow filter, reminiscent of flashback scenes in futuristic sci-fi films, meant to juxtapose the main character’s current dark conflict.

How naive I was to the thunderstorm spinning its way toward Edinburgh, intending to transform the city into a large, gray, week-long car wash. Scotland can be strange that way. The atmosphere almost seems to sense when people are getting too comfortable with the temperature, responding by punishing its citizens like a medieval lord tutored by Machiavelli.

Nonetheless, the UK charm and the lovely sunshine stirred my imagination, leading to an hour of feverish planning to create the most perfect and balanced week-long holiday with my Matriarchs. When I finished I requested their email accounts and sent them the PDF file, knowing they were delighted and impressed with my thorough and genius script for the week.

“The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men, often go awry”

Robert Burns

Saturday 

• Itinerary Details: Mom arrives at 10:35am. Take the 10:51 tram to West End Station where I will be waiting for you. Walk to the flat (15-20 mins). Kaylin works from 3-6pm. Mom checks into the flat at 3 and can meet me at my cafe at 5:00pm. Then dinner at 6:30.

“Welp, her flight is delayed,” I told Troy, who was sitting across from me with his coffee. A wee disruption to the itinerary was inevitable. Small delays like this are expected and won’t derail an entire week of activity. Besides, this was only the first day, and I had already accounted for jet lag and transportation hiccups. She was still arriving early enough for me to pick her up at the tram station and get her settled before my shift at the cafe that afternoon.

My hopes remained high as I waited in the sunshine at the West End Tram station for her tram to arrive. Swinging around the light post to pass the time I squint against the sun for the first glimpse of the oncoming tram. I did the math repeatedly in my head calculating her anticipated arrival time, knowing the journey typically takes 23 minutes, and she had confirmed she was on the tram 25 minutes ago. The next tram slid into the stop and I finally spot her in sitting in her window seat. I can tell he has noticed me too as she begins waving emphatically and I follow her cart as it slowly comes to a stop.

She emerges from the tram into picturesque, perfectly bright 60-degree weather that illuminated Edinburgh’s lush city foliage with shire-like greenery.

“Are you hungry? Tired? What do you need?” I asked her, coming down from the joy of our reunion.

“I’m starving.”

“Excellent! Do you want to grab something on the way back, or would you prefer eggs and toast at home?”

Knowing we had some time allotted in the itinerary, we opted for a lovely brunch at La Viola Cafe & Bistro. We ordered the Scottish breakfast, and I watched wearily as my mother picked at the various items on the plate, which included six different pork preparations, sheep entrails, and two chicken embryos. I winced as I saw the realization of Scottish cuisine sink in on my mother’s face. “This is about as Scottish as it gets,” I laughed, while Troy dug into his delicious-looking Eggs Benedict on the other side of the table.

My mother made the same expression later that night sitting in the Old Bell Inn, enjoying traditional haggis, neeps and tatties, and an order of steak and ale pie.

“A traditional Scottish pub meal.” I gestured to the hot plates when they arrived as if I had prepared them myself.

She picked around the pie after enjoying the potatoes. We laughed together as I commended her efforts to explore the local cuisine. “I completely agree with your mindset on the matter; however, Scottish cuisine can be quite bland.”

A fog rolls in over the city by the time I wedge myself to the bar to pay for our dinner bill, and we begin our stroll back to her Airbnb. With plans to grab a bottle of wine to enjoy at the flat, we hook arms and navigate to the wine store across from her place. Against my better judgment, I mention how the weather makes me think of “Jack the Ripper,” and I receive a predicted response.

Sunday 

• Itinerary Details: 9am grab a coffee, go to the farmers market by 10, afterwards enjoy a picnic in the gardens. 5:00pm attend an Umbria wine tasting that Troy runs at his workplace. 7pm prepare dinner with farmers market ingredients.

“You can just buzz in when you get here,” I texted my mother at 11 am. Both of us had slept in after I kept her awake chatting until 2am with two bottles of Chilean Pinot Noir on the coffee table.

When she arrives at the door, I place a hot cup of coffee in her hand. Immediately we begin brainstorming to salvage what plans are still possible from the itinerary after a losing the morning. We scratch visiting a coffee shop and plan our route for the Stockbridge Farmers Market.

The grey sky makes for a cool and refreshing walk down Lothian Road as we continue our conversation from the night before. By the time we reach the other side of Princess Street, I’m praising the quiet, quaint streets of Stockbridge, hoping to appease my mother’s preference for quaint countryside air over bustling city streets. We follow a narrow cobblestone street and start to see the market’s yellow tents. The aromas of spices, seafood, and herbs guide us to the heart of the market.

I find my holy trinity of farmers market items: candles, honey, and fresh flowers. With a bag full of fresh lavender and goodies, I guide my mother back across the city to Princess Street Gardens for an hour of relaxation under the sun.

We arrive right on time for our wine tasting with ten minutes to spare. The chef amazes us with the pairings, and when we’re invited to stay for dinner afterward, I’m delighted that my mom jumps at the opportunity, even though it means never completing the final plan for Sunday in the itinerary to prepare a dinner of our own using ingredients from our trip to the farmers market. To be fair, I’m unsure what sort of dinner could have been conjured with lavender, creamed honey, and a rhubarb candle.

Monday

• Itinerary details: 10am morning hike. Bus to the trailhead. Complete hike by 3pm. Return to flat for showers and siesta. Grammy’s flight arrives at 6:40 pm. Meet Grammy at Tram Station at 7:28 pm.

The next day, the sun hid behind the all-too-familiar Scottish sheet of grey. “What do you want to do today?” my mother asked, sipping her coffee.

“Oh, it’s in the itinerary.” I grabbed my phone, scrolled to today’s date, and proudly reported, “A morning fairytale hike.”

It was a fairytale hike indeed. We arrived via Uber at Rosslyn Chapel, then descended into the glen to find an 18th-century gunpowder mill. “How is there nobody here?!” my mother exclaimed as we crossed the stone bridge back up to the walkway that led us to the trailhead.

Sweaty and out of breath, we climb out of the glen back to our original starting point. My mother checked the time on her phone. “Grammy arrives in 40 minutes.”

“Oh yes, that’s perfect. It will take us about 20 minutes to get back to the flat, and her tram won’t arrive at West End Station until around 7:28. That gives us over an hour to walk over and be ready at the tram station for her.”

My mother considered this but then proposed, unsure how Grammy would feel navigating the tram, that we pick her up directly at the airport.

That night, we prepared venison and watched the 9:30 pm sunset from the bay windows in the lounge. We cheered with a 2013 Brunello di Montalcino and shared our excitement for the week to come- just as I had predicted in the itinerary.

Tuesday

• Itinerary Details: 9am tour of the campus until Kaylin attends her dissertation courses at 10am. Mother and Grammy can sight-see together until 1:00pm. Meet back at campus. 3:00pm begin preparing dinner for Troy’s birthday party. Guests are expected to arrive by 5:00pm. Dinner at 7:00.

After a full day of touring the campus, visiting the National Museum of Scotland, and preparing a three-course Italian meal for a guest list of ten people, the five of us—Troy, Sorin, my mother, grandmother, and I—sat in the lounge, attempting not to devour all the bruschetta before the other half of the party arrived.

“What time did you tell the Italians to arrive?” I asked Troy.

“I told them to come at 6:00 and that we could eat by 7:30,” Troy responded, inspecting the numbers on his phone indicating 7:34 pm.

“Italians,” I remarked endearingly.

“Italians,” the rest of the room echoed with breathy chuckles.

Wednesday

Itinerary Details: 9 am- Troy’s Birthday Breakfast at The Pantry Edinburgh. 11 am- Photoshoot at Circus Lane and Dean Village. 12pm-Walk the Princess Street Gardens. 2/3 pm- Wine and Cocktails at A Wee Taste. 7:30pm Divino Wine Bar Fancy Jazz Dinner in the City Center

“Any chance you still want to go take our pictures?” I asked my grandmother, who was still tucked in her bed at 8:30 am, from the doorway. She pulled her duvet covers up to her chin, her eyes wide and pleading, shaking her head nah-uh.

After a late night celebrating Troy’s birthday with wonderful company and exquisite food and wine, I reluctantly dragged myself out of bed the next morning at half past eight, only to be greeted by a rainy Edinburgh. Instead of the picturesque scene I had envisioned to be the backdrop of our morning brunch—sunshine, birds chirping, and warm breezes—I faced the reality of a downpour.

The anticipation I had felt while dreaming of our Wednesday morning plans—toasting mimosas, meeting for a scheduled photography session to capture us in flowy dresses and cute sandals, skipping together through Deans Village to Princess Street—was now replaced by dread at the thought of doing it all in a heavy rainstorm.

I wasn’t the only one feeling a strong aversion to going outside. When the three of us—my Matriarchs and I—gathered in the lounge with our warm cups of coffee in hand, we observed the watery streaks forming on the bay windows in a silence of mutual disinclination.

“What is something we can do to escape the rain?” my mother initiated the brainstorm session.

“What about the city vaults?”

A few hours later, we braved the downpour underneath the single umbrella we shared among the three of us as we reached the meeting point for our tour. There, I learned many new things about the history of the city I had been living in for the last several months.

In the late 18th century, to facilitate expansion, large bridges were constructed from the city center to the Southside. These bridges allowed commuters to bypass the sewage-ridden and unglamorous highway for livestock below called “Cowgate”.

So naturally, our guide led us down to the lower levels of the city. We followed the flooding waters to their collection point on the famous Cowgate street, then pivoted to a small, unassuming opening tucked away in the facade of buildings.

As a consequence of constructing these large bridges, chambers were formed within the arches, originally intended as extra storage space for merchants conducting business on the bridge. However, much like my well-intentioned plans for the week being soaked by unexpected rain, the city of Edinburgh did not consider the weather and unfortunately did not waterproof the vaults. This led to a propensity of mold that spoiled whatever goods the merchants had stored inside.

The guide ushers us inside as we climb underneath south bridge and found ourselves in a room adorned with medieval torture devices, chastity belts and muzzles for “nagging women”. Stingy with his flashlight’s illumination, he begins to entail how the vaults were abandoned by the merchants and adopted by the opportunists and the desperate.

Guiding us into one of the chambers adorned with two pillar candles on the back wall, my Matriarchs and I huddled into the low-roofed chamber with twenty strangers as the guide recounted the haunting history of the Edinburgh city vaults. When he finished explaining the disease and crime-ridden conditions that historically occurred within the space, he escorted us further down the vaults to illuminate another chamber with a circle of stones in the center. The guide reanimated the haunting stories of witches who performed a reversed incantation on an evil spirit, trapping it within the stone circle.

“You may step into the circle if you dare,” invited the tour guide, then left us tourists in the room.

Silently, the three of us communicated with each other. “No thank you.”

Thursday

• Itinerary details: Edinburgh Castle, Handbag making, Hike up to the top of Arther’s Seat, and the The Writers Museum. 6pm Dinner Reservations Made at Dulse.

“Oh man” I said to Troy, sipping my warm coffee and observing the distortion effect of gallons of water being dumped from the sky. “My Matriarchs are out there.”

And they were. Standing underneath the little umbrella I sent them with, shivering outside while the tour guide droned on and on for 45 minutes about the stadium they were assembling for the Royal Naval spectacle.

This morning, I didn’t even bother pulling up my beloved itinerary. The windows were already streaked with rain, and the streets below reflected the lights of the brave few cars venturing out in the weather. The Matriarchs were excited about touring the castle, and instead of paying for a third ticket for me who had already seen the castle, I opted to remain in the flat and make whatever progress I could on my research.

After an hour and a half, I had sifted through a few articles worth noting and considered adding additional search terms to the overall strategy. Meanwhile, my matriarchs were dashing through the city, clutching the umbrella I had given them. Water rushed from the top of the city center, draining down the hills, while the rain continued to fall from the sky, assaulting them from both directions. As they braved the elements, I sat in my fleece base layers, typing an additional, albeit feeble, three hundred words to the search strategy section.

Noting my small progress, I decided it was time for a wee snack and went to the kitchen.

As I placed the pan on the stove, a small splash snagged my attention. I froze, uncertain if it was a trick of the mind or an accurate detection of a leak. Inspecting the roof, I watched as water gathered on the bubbled yellow wallpaper above, eventually releasing itself to plummet onto the stove.

“We should inform the landlady,” Troy stated from the kitchen table as he witnessed the incident.

I delegated the task to him and returned to my laptop in the lounge to continue my work, occasionally looking up at the rainstorm through the bay windows and pinching my eyebrows together for concern of my Matriarchs, somewhere out in that chaos.

I hear the flat door open with the familiar sound of keys jingling as Sorin returns. Noting the background noise of those in the flat carrying out their tasks, I enter a zone of productivity, troubleshooting my lack of results after plugging in my key terms in the database. Eventually, Sorin sticks their head into the lounge. “I found another leak by the kitchen window,” they announce.

Seconds later, the three of us stand by the kitchen window, our necks craned back, watching water droplets invade from the window frame onto the tile. Placing buckets underneath the leaks feels sufficient for me to return to my work. As I make my way back to my sleeping laptop, there’s a knock at the door. Hoping it is the return of my Matriarchs, I peer into the hallway as Sorin opens the door and Marvin, one of the landlords, steps in, rubbing his drenched boots on the rug. He requests access to the attic and ladder keys to check the roof. Hearing their conversation from the hallway prompts me to peer out the window again and see the unchanged downpour of rain.

Checking the time on the oven clock, I send a little prayer for my mother and grandmother and the second I plop on the couch, the buzzer goes off. I rise from the couch once more and squeeze past Sorin, Marvin and Troy in the hallway to answer the intercom—my Matriarchs are back from their castle tour.

“You guys returned!” I exclaim as they begrudgingly ascend the stairway, leaving a wet trail of rainwater behind them. “Let’s get you warm,” I say, instantly donning my hostess hat.

After placing their wet jackets on the boiler and preparing a comforting pot of tea, we gather around the kitchen table. My mother’s eyes catch sight of the scattered buckets, and she gazes up at the ceiling, where occasional footsteps echo from above. I quickly brief her on the situation just as another guest arrives at the door.

My landlady, Rita, joins the three of us in the kitchen. With purposeful strides, she navigates around us, her eyes scanning the ceiling for signs of the leak, while explaining to Sorin her efforts to contact a roofer.

Amidst the sounds of Marvin’s footsteps and the gentle patter of raindrops into the awaiting buckets, I offer my grandmother some cream for her tea and ask her thoughts on the castle tour.

Concluding she has done all she should do for the time being, Rita turns her attention to the three of us. I take the opportunity to introduce my Matriarchs to my landlady and extend an invitation for her to join us for tea. With a gracious nod, she accepts, and we settle at the kitchen table and delve into a discussion about homeownership.

Friday

• Itinerary details: 8:00-2:00 pm Kaylin works on Dissertation in the morning at the library. Grammy and Mom go on an adventure and we will meet at the National Museum of Scotland by 2 pm. Siesta and then a Traditional Scottish Pub night for dinner.

“We are not going to make it!” My mother calls after me as I guide her down the Scotsman’s steps towards Edinburgh Waverley Train Station. I click on my phone screen to check the time: 13:25.

“Yes, we will. I’ve had to run to catch my train numerous times, haven’t you read my blog?” I call out my reassurance in the stairwell, trusting the stones to echo my voice up to my mother some unknown distance behind me.

Mom decided that she would regret not seeing the highlands while she was here. Somehow during the week, she managed to book an entire tour of the Isle of Skye from Inverness, a night in a hostel, and the train- which we were now running to catch.

We descend the stairs to the entrance of the train station. “Ah, see? We are already here.” I force optimistic calm in my voice that I pray is contagious. We weave through the endless sea of people with chaotic current patterns, and I keep my eyes alert for Platform 11, planning my best route. I try to pave a pathway through the people to ease my mother’s way. We break through on the main floor, and we reach the ticket gates.

“You just have to scan your ticket here and then—” My mother gets scanned through the gate and bustles off towards the train with a smile on her face. “Great! Thank you! Love you! Bye!” She yells back to me as she leaps into the small mouth of the train. I wave after her, stuck behind the ticket gates. “HAVE FUN!” Noting that my mother was probably remarkably eager to escape the city and get to the countryside.

I turn from the train. Crap, I lost the others. My thought nearly doesn’t finish as Troy and my Grammy emerge from the escalator.

Just ten minutes before, we were all prying our way through the congested Nicolson street like a dismembered amoeba. Unfortunately, to make the train, my mother and I hastened ahead, leaving behind Troy and Grammy. Of course, it worked out fine. I smile as they join me at the ticket gate. “She made it.” I tell them, and they stand with me, waving as the train pulls away from the station.

“Well, mission accomplished,” I tell the group in regards to getting my mother to her train, and we begin trekking back to our neighborhood.

As a group, we briefly toured St. Giles Church on the way back to the flat, enjoying the brief reprieve from the rain. After returning home, we set up the living room with the projector and some freshly popped popcorn for a movie night.

At the proper dinner hour, my Grammy arose from the couch in her pajamas. “Is there any cheese left?” she asked, referring to the cheese platter we served during Troy’s dinner party.

“Oh yes, definitely. Do you want cheese now?” I inquired.

“Well, I only had some soup this morning.”

“Fair, but we are supposed to go out to a pub tonight for a classic Scottish dinner in just a short while.”

My Grammy shook with shock. “Oh, I completely forgot.”

“Well, it’s in the itinerary,” I landed the trending inside joke of the week.

Half an hour later, my grandmother and I descended the stairway and exited my apartment building, entering my rainy street.

“The Argyle is not too far from here,” I directed us to the local pub underneath the umbrella that could do little to save us from the city rivers at our feet.

We sloshed through the flooded sidewalks from restaurant to restaurant. All were full.

“I suppose it is a Friday night,” I remarked to my grandmother, who was cursing being in the rain.

“Can we just get a pizza or something?” She pleaded for any method to find refuge. I explained to her that the closest pizza place was a 10-minute walk and even if we succeeded in obtaining one, we would have to walk back and risk a saggy pizza box.

“Is there any lasagna left?” My grandmother inquired about our leftover stock.

“No… you had the rest of that for lunch yesterday… but I have most of the ingredients, I can make you ano-”

“Let’s do that,” my grandmother interjected, her resolve evident.

We returned to the flat after leaving just 12 minutes prior, soaked and still hungry. Placing our jeans and shoes on the radiator and exchanging them for pajama pants and socks, we made our way to the kitchen to prepare my Italian specialty dish of the week, which we enjoyed with a cheese platter and leftover Pinot Noir.

The next day, we were scheduled to travel to London, at least according to my itinerary. Who knows what may actually take place.