Inverness, Scotland: WWFPD (What Would Ford Prefect Do)?

After the blowout at the Fringe Festival I was looking forward to three or four relatively quiet days in the Scottish highlands. Trekking through forests, climbing hills, potentially seeing monsters... But before all that, I should probably note here that if you're planning to visit the Scottish highlands, or any part of Scotland aside from Edinburgh or Glasgow, it's in your best interest to rent a car, study up on driving on the opposite (or as I say, "wrong") side of the road, and hit the streets. The public transportation up there is shaky at best. But if you do manage to work out the trains your perseverance and gusto will be rewarded with some absolutely breathtaking views. The views on the way to Inverness were great but wait until you see the shots on the way to and from Skye.

In addition to incredible landscape the highlands are also known for their shaggy brown cows which look almost like a blend of a water buffalo, Texas Longhorn, and a Tibetan Terrier. So while you're mashing all that up in your head I'll provide you with photo reference. While I took a picture of one of these cows, it came out unusably blurry so here is a professionally done shot courtesy of wordpress.com.

When I got to Inverness I acquired a map and started scanning the landscape for an attack point. As is now my customary M.O., I attempted to know as little about Inverness as I possibly could before I arrived. In that regard I was successful. Perhaps too successful as I, embarrassingly, did not possess the knowledge that Inverness lies on the banks of the Ness river. Which, yep you guessed it, feeds into Loch Ness. Idiot! I just slapped myself in the face. 

The whole time I had been contemplating visiting Scotland I kept kicking around the idea of making my way to Loch Ness. Here I am within a stick shaking number of kilometers and I had absolutely no idea how close I was. I just validated every stereotype of American geographic stupidity. I'm ashamed dear reader, and I apologize. But before I attempted to make up for my folly by visiting this legendary accumulation of rainwater, I took a stroll around town. First up to the Kessock Bridge and Beauly and Moray (that's a moray!) Firth and then down the River Ness to the old part of town.

Once in the old town portion I strolled around briefly. And briefly is about the longest you can stretch it. Honestly there isn't a whole heap to see in Inverness itself. The most prominent feature in the town is the only mildly domineering castle perched atop a hill in the city center. For those of you with rapier wits: you should be noticing a theme here in Scotland.

Since it only took me about 25 minutes to walk through the entire city, I decided to try my luck walking down to Loch Ness. The northernmost portion of the lake itself is roughly seven miles from Inverness. So a 2.5 to 3.5 hour walk depending on your walking speed. After climbing mountains, traversing the wastes of Morocco, and deftly navigating the puddles of urine and booze in Paris, this seemed like child's play. To my astonishment, however, I made it only about 1.5 miles. It was at this point someone pulled over to ask me if I knew directions to Loch Ness. First of all, do I look that Scottish or is it just because I was the only fool walking on the road?

Second, of course I know where it is! What do you think I am, some geographically challenged American?!? (ahem). "Not only do I know where it is," I said, "but I'm heading there myself. I can show you if you'd like." "Sure, jump in." And that was it. My first hitchhiking venture was underway. Simple as that. Hitchhiking cherry popped. Suddenly I find myself thinking I can really get into this hitching thing. About 10 minutes later we are standing at a viewing area gazing wistfully at the mystic Loch Ness. I offered to take a picture of the nice couple. For the record the husband was from Malaysia, the wife was Irish, and they were visiting friends in Scotland. They kindly returned serve.

This gave me a great idea. The whole way down to the lake I was thinking, how the hell am I going to get back? The highway down there is really not designed for pedestrian traffic, i.e. no shoulder to speak of. Great place to get clipped by a truck. And then it hit me. I would merely stand there gazing longingly at the lake, feigning photography, until two people came up in a four seater car. Then I would ask them if they'd like me to take a picture of them, find out where they were going, and then impose myself on them for a ride.

At the first car that came up heading in the direction of Inverness, I sprung my plan into action. It was two guys, scruffy, one tall and bald, one short and less bald. "Hello, do you want me to take a picture of the two of you?" "Sure, that would be great." Fumbling with camera... "Where are you guys heading?" "Through Inverness on the way to Aberdeen." "Really?" I said sounding shocked as I took the picture, "would you mind if I troubled you for a lift to Inverness? I caught a ride down and I'm kind of stuck here as I'll probably get killed by a truck trying to hike back." "uhh... yeah, sure that's fine." Boom baby. All there is to it.

One thing I learned from my previous life in consulting: if you put someone on the spot and ask them point blank, they are really hesitant to flat out turn you down. And if the only options are yes or no, chances are very high that you'll get a yes. Simply because it's easier than trying to come up with some reason for a no besides not wanting to be bothered. You would be surprised at how many elements of life this elementary principle can be applied to. Anyway, the guys were nice fellows from a town outside Venice on a two week holiday in the UK. They dropped me off just south of the town center and I made my way back. On the way I stopped and got a shot of St. Andrew's cathedral.

From there I decided to walk up to the castle and check out the scene. As anticipated, there wasn't one. Just a few tourists milling about and a flock of seagulls. Not the band, an actual flock of seagulls. Now that I think about it, the seagulls were more interesting than the castle. First, there was apparently a game of "king of the hill" going on whereby a seagull would capture the hill (the head of a statue of what I assume is Mary Queen of Scots), then another would take it away, and finally the victor would loudly heckle the other seagulls; challenging them to locate their balls and attempt to take the hill- if they dared. I documented the exchange in this Pulitzer deserving photo montage:

Also at the castle, attempting to mingle inconspicuously with the seagulls, was a type of bird I've never seen before. It looked the result of a romantic evening between a seagull and the Penguin from the Michael Keaton Batman Sequel. And most horrifying of all, the noise it exuded bore an uncanny resemblance to the whistling sound Jim Carrey makes when he gets his nose broken by Renee Zellweger in Me, Myself, and Irene. I looked for a link on youtube but couldn't find it. But those of you who are hip, who are jiggy with it... you know what I'm talkin about.

At this point two things have happened: (1) I'm weirded out by all this seagull nonsense; and (2) I'm freaking famished. Before I left London, Mike had told me that the "fish n chips capital of the world" was Inverness. That may or may not be accurate, but according to the owner of my hostel, when asked if there were any good fish n chips places in town his reply was a swift and blunt "no." When pressed he did, however, point me in the direction of a popular pub called the King's Highway. It was there I ordered my fish n chips and a hearty pint of Guinness.

It was only after I had ordered that I noticed there was a special for 2 pounds where you could fill your own pint glass from a cask ale keg and all proceeds went to charity. Minor lapse in judgement aside, if there are "no good fish n chips in Inverness," I want to know where the heck that guy is eating his fish n chips! The ones at King's Highway in Inverness were some of if not the best I've ever had. They were so good in fact, I devoured the entire plate before I thought to take a picture. So you'll just have to take my word for it.

While I was inhaling my meal, I picked up portions of an interesting conversation between two of the bar staff which left me perplexed. One girl kept going on and on about cheddars, which she pronounced "chay-ders." She was ranting and raving about her discovery of a "regular size" chay-der as opposed to the mini chay-ders she evidently grown up on. Within the span of 1 minute she must have said chay-der 15 times. Frankly, I was impressed. But that didn't get me any closer to understanding what it was she was talking about.

So, if you dear reader have any idea what these chay-ders are, leave a comment. I've done exhaustive research (i.e. typing "inverness cheddar" into Google) only to come up empty handed. It keeps pointing to a restaurant but that simply doesn't fit with the context of the conversation unless this girl had spent her childhood going to a Cheddar's specifically designed for children and/or midgets. Either way, at least one inquiring mind wants to know.

Wow I'm really rambling at this point. Let's just stop here. To summarize, Inverness: Loch Ness is here. Maybe you'll see Nessie, likely you wont. I didn't but I'm a weird vagrant. And while you're here, why not try hitchhiking? Like me. And Ford Prefect. Just make sure to always bring a towel.

Edinburgh, Scotland: The Fringe of Madness

Whenever I would tell anyone I was planning to go to Scotland they would inevitably say "you have to go to Edinburgh!" And generally it was yelled in the fashion of a courier issuing a royal mandate. As if under some unlikely circumstance I was confronted with the Scottish police and it was discovered that I hadn't been to Edinburgh, I would be facing inevitable fines, imprisonment or worse. But their outspoken concern was moot as I had long decided to visit Edinburgh. Which, by the way, is pronounced "Ed-in-braa!" Extra emphasis on the exclamation.

What I hadn't anticipated was that I would be arriving in the middle of the Edinburgh Fringe Festival- the largest art festival in the world with something like 2,600 performances in around 270 venues over the nearly month-long term. Nearly every pub in the city has been designated as a venue and in addition to actual performance venues a number of random stages have been set up along the streets.

Initially, the Edinburgh International festival was the premier (and only) festival, however, the English felt they weren't getting a fare shake so they came up and started the Fringe Festival as an alternative. Now the Fringe dwarfs the International Festival. I found out about it through James and Michelle who I met in York and they coincidentally happened to be going to Edinburgh at the exact same time and staying in the exact same hostel I was. So it made perfect sense for me to just tag along with them since they had done all the legwork on what to see and do.

Dragging myself off the train around noon into Edinburgh, however, it was all I could do to muster the energy to walk up the hill to the hostel. As I staggered sluggishly toward my destination, I immediately noticed the striking look of the buildings in Edinburgh. When describing Edinburgh to me people used adjectives like "charming" or "medieval" or... "old." Generally the actuality rarely lives up to the billing, but I'm pleased to announce that Edinburgh can be accurately described as charming, medieval, and old.

The short walk to the hostel complete, I was informed that I couldn't check in until 1pm. Having nothing better to do, I deposited my bag and decided to investigate what this "Fringe Festival" was all about. Fortunately, the main outdoor performance portion of it was just up our street, Cockburn Street, along the Royal Mile. Yes, I said Cockburn Street. And, for you Jon, right across from our hostel was this:

I'll never grow up. The Royal Mile was absolutely packed with a dizzying array of tourists, performers, people advertising for performances, vendors hawking wears, and people who seemed to be simply reveling in the chaos.

The festival itself is comprised of music, plays, other performance art, but more than anything is predominantly comedy. Many comics have been "discovered" while performing at the Edinburgh Fringe it's thus considered an excellent place to launch your fledgling comedy career. Or just act like an idiot with your friends. During the day most of the street venues are occupied by various performing artists, magicians, comedians, or sometimes weird dudes happy to just do their thing.

There was one guy in particular who fell distinctly into the latter category. Apparently his performance entailed looking like Zach Galifinakis, dressing in a leotard and nipple tassels, and riding a really tall unicycle while heckling kids and juggling knives. I'm serious. And the thing is, he killed!

Sexy. Glad I came to Edinburgh. In his defense, he was pretty skilled at riding that unicycle. And juggling. And keeping those nipple tassels a twirlin. Needing a break from the sensory overload, I took refuge in what appeared to be a church. Why you ask? Did I suddenly come down with an overpowering urge to envelop myself in the everlasting love of Christ? Actually it was because they advertised broadcasting all Olympic sports and I really wanted to catch the USA men's basketball team play for a gold medal. Hey, hey, don't judge- basketball is a religion where I grew up. But when I got inside it wasn't a church at all. It was a bar! Where was this concept when I had to go to church during my formative adult years??

Despite the awesome concept, the thought of having a drink nearly brought me to tears so I opted for a Coke. Then I was informed it was three pounds, which did bring me tears. Egregious! That's more offensive robbery than the indomitable collection plate. And beers were only two pounds- what a day to quit drinking! To make matters worse, they opted to show boxing instead of basketball. Again?!? Who cares about two former USSR nations' chunky dudes bashing each other in the face when the USA is taking on Spain for a gold medal in the greatest sport on earth! So I chugged my $4.50 coke and got the heck out of there, back to the hostel, and powered up the computer to watch the game.

The next day I met James and Michelle who last night, while I was laying low, worked out all the acts we would be seeing for the fringe over the next two nights. But the most pressing matter of the morning was, you guessed it, joining up with the free walking tour. I love these tours! And grilled cheese sandwiches... but that's another story for another blog. We started up the Royal mile with our group to the first stopping point and because of all the early am Fringe activity we lost the group within 200 meters. So we had to slink back down and join a new group until we could ultimately rendezvous with the old group and rejoin. Consequently we missed the first 2000 years or so of Scottish history. Tough titty. It's also worth noting that even at 11am, the Fring-ites were already out in full on crazy force.

Makes sense. One of the downsides of doing the tour during the Fringe was that most of the open areas where we would typically recess to learn about what it is we're looking at were dominated by street performers doing their acts. A great example is this shot of a man wearing a kilt balancing on a ladder in front of St. Giles Cathedral. I'd love to tell you about St. Giles but I couldn't focus on anything other than this pant-less man hopping about on his ladder.

I'm not going to post any more shots of the rest of the tour, so feel free to scoot on over to flickr if you're so inclined. We did end up seeing most of the famous things in Edinburgh: the writer's museum, the statue of Hume (who I remember falling asleep while attempting to read in my intro philosophy class at UNC), Greyfriars and Bobby, Victoria Street, and one of the most visited tourist sites in Scotland- Edinburgh Castle. Below is the best shot I have of the castle because the other side was covered in scaffolding and seating for the Military Tattoo (an exhibition of marching and military formations of historical significance taking place on the castle greens). If you're counting, that's three major festivals in Edinburgh at the same time.

The castle itself is very expensive to enter (16 pounds I believe) so we collectively elected to spend that money on Fringe Festival acts and save the castle for another time. I also heard that it's one of the lesser impressive castles compared to the many others scattered about Scotland. During the middle of the tour we were given a 20 minute break and James suggested that we use it to try our first single malt ("scotch") whisky of our time in Scotland. "But it's only 12:30" I initially thought, however, I quickly reasoned that since we're in Scotland where it's common to begin the day with a drink, a mid-day scotch was perfectly reasonable. I countered that we would need to get something else so that I didn't have just whisky on my stomach and so we compromised on an ale. :/ Now this, THIS, is a true full Scottish breakfast.

If you're curious we went with the single malt of the day: the 12 year Old Pulteney. After the tour we did do something very note and picture worthy: we ate haggis. For those of you who don't know what haggis is, it's the innards of a sheep (heart, lungs, liver, and brains in pre-mad cow days) diced up, seasoned, mixed with oatmeal and a bunch of other stuff, then cooked inside a sheep stomach. Yummy!

These days they've modernized it quite a bit. It's usually a combination of beef, pork, and sheep. It is usually not cooked in a stomach. And it's often dressed up and served with neeps and tatties (turnips and mashed potatoes). I'll be completely honest here- I was a bit hesitant to give this a go until I saw it on the plate. And my eyes didn't deceive me. It was good. Really good. As in, I'd eat this on a regular basis and order it in restaurants good. It really gets a bad rep- but it tastes like a more seasoned shepherd's pie but without the vegis. Doesn't it look delicious?

That night we had tickets to Alan Davies who is apparently a big deal in the UK and Commonwealth. He's probably most famous for being on a show called QI with Stephen Frye if that means anything to you. To kill some time before the show we stopped into this bar called Lebowski's, themed like the film including a cocktail menu with around 40 types of white russians. I never thought I'd see a bar dedicated to white russians. Well done. Davies' show was pretty good- he was all over the place, hitting on a myriad of topics. He did a dated bit on learning how to use Facebook and then a racy bit on Russian porn actors followed by a bit on his wife having his first child. A little bit for everyone I suppose. Watching the looks of discomfort and borderline horror on the faces of the 65+ demographic during the porn segment was actually more amusing to me than the bit itself.

After the show we decided to do our own impromptu pub crawl and ended up at this really great place called the Banshee Laybrinth which holds itself out as the city's most haunted bar. I don't know about haunted, but it's certainly the most potentially devastating to your health. We started off with a couple of their signature shots: the Black Death. It's equal parts absinthe, black sambuca, aftershock, and tequila. I assuming you just vomited onto your computer so I'll give you a minute to clean up... take your time... better?

The place itself is massive with 6 or 7 rooms, three of which were being used as active Fringe venues when we were there. Since the shows were already in progress we opted to watch Ghostbusters II which was being screened in one of the rooms. Later, when I went to get a beer I noticed they had a drink called the Ghostbuster on the cocktail menu, and more importantly, that such beverage could be had in pitcher form. Oh baby. The only thing haunting this place as far as I can tell are the ghosts of dead livers. As you might imagine, the night got pretty wild. We ended up seeing a three man "comedy" play in that bar (and all of us nodding off during it), then hanging out with some Aussies on a Contiki tour (who were not surprisingly getting "out of their faces"), then going to the club up the street called The Hive with them.

It was so hot in this club that everyone was literally dripping sweat. Saturated. The floors were covered in a film of sweat and booze. It seemed to be oozing from the walls, pouring over the chairs, spilling into the entryways. The place pulsated and moved- like we were dancing in a live beating heart. When we emerged around 3 in the morning I felt as if I had been rebirthed into the cool evening air, damp hair and clothing clinging to my person. The clubber's afterbirth. From there Michelle got her second piggyback ride- up the street, diagonally across oncoming traffic, and down to the hostel where we all crashed hard.

The next morning I was tender to life. Sunshine, noise, walking, it all pained me. Breaking my usually staunchly adhered to Budhist-level principle, I met Michelle for breakfast. If I was going to eat breakfast I thought, I might as well do it properly. So I got a roll with bacon, sausage, egg, and butter. And a large coffee. Afterward I felt uncomfortably full for that hour of the day but otherwise about 9x better than I had just moments before. I'm going to have to do some experimenting with this whole "breakfast" thing.

Once James was up and about we decided to climb up Arthur's Seat, a rock formation standing imposingly over the southeast portion of the city. On the way up you get an excellent view of the other main hill in the immediate Edinburgh vicinity, Calton Hill.

I won't post all the pictures from on top of the hill but it was a fantastic hike and I highly recommend flipping through them on flickr if you're bored or, like me, love views from mountains. Here is one of me at the very top gnawing on some straw like a good southern boy should.

One of the reasons I love climbing is that it provides me with a better perspective on life. Literally and figuratively. Gazing across the horizon from astride a mountain makes the trials and tribulations of the day feel utterly trite and insignificant. When you look out and there is nothing in your view higher than you- it's celestial. Zeus on Olympus. Observing the happenings below but completely indifferent to their outcomes. It makes you feel alive. Makes you feel bigger than life.

After conquering the mountain we decided to celebrate in the most logical way: by climbing the other main hill! You thought I was going to say by having a beer didn't you? Fair, enough. As I proofread this I was expecting it to say that too. Back on topic, Calton Hill is loaded with historic monuments but the real thing to see is the view of Edinburgh below.

Having conquered all hills in reasonable proximity it was time to celebrate for real by indulging the angry hermit in our stomachs with a smothering of food. We accomplished this at a little pub on Rose Street in the New Town where, for the first time, I finally tried the British staple fish n chips. They were outstanding (except for the mushy peas which look like wasabi and taste like... mush), but the real star of the show was my choice of beverage: Crabbie's alcoholic ginger beer. It tastes just like ginger beer but has 4% alcohol. Dangerous. And, now that I think about it, basically defeats the whole purpose of ginger beer to begin with. But don't let that stop you from crushing them more vigorously than Big Punisher crushed, well, everything. Michelle opted for this gigantic burger that was almost as big as her head. I thought there was no chance of her finishing it but she polished if off along with her fries and some of my fish. The girl can eat.

An interesting note about Crabbie's: on the label there is a picture of the thistle, Scotland's national flower. According to our tour guide, when the agreement between England and Scotland was formed (thereby creating the UK), each country had to pick its national flower. England picked the rose. Growing all over Scotland are thistles which are known to choke out roses, so naturally, the Scottish chose the thistle. Anything to take a jab at the English.

That night we had tickets to see Mark Watson and an Irish guy whose name escapes me. Mark Watson was outstanding. He started the show hiding in a box on the stage and listening to people's conversations which he later commented on. He's known for his use of interactive technology- for example, he encourages you to leave your phones on and text him things during the show. He will also joke around with the audience. One girl went to the bathroom and he hid and did the show backstage until she came out and was confused as to why no one was on stage.

Later a guy texted him saying he had a urinary tract infection and asking if he could go to the bathroom. Mark read it aloud, gave the guy permission and this guy in the front row (right in front of us) jumps up and runs out. So he asks the guy's friends if it's true which apparently it was. So he's like "that really sucks... we should mess with him anyway." He takes the guy's chair and hides it and everyone in the row scoots in so it appears the seat never existed. Guy comes back, is really confused and ends up sitting on the floor while all of us are cracking up. The Irish guy was pretty funny but nothing really worth noting. While we were waiting for the shows I made James (an Australian) drink a Fosters with me. If you don't know, Australians abhor Fosters.

After the show we went to a beer garden where James was meeting up with one of his friends from University. The beer garden itself had an awesome layout but maybe a bit too loud and too posh for Michelle and I. Plus it was really expensive.

Michelle and I started talking about our favorite drinks and she mentioned a great affinity for Bacardi. An affinity that I share. When she divulged that she had some back at the hostel, our frugal sides got the better of us and we retreated to the hostel lounge for a night cap and chat about the grand merits of teaching. Done while enjoying Bacardi as it's meant to be enjoyed- warm and straight up out of the bottle.

By the time we knocked it out the staff was ready to close up the lounge so we retired for the evening, capping off an impressive fun-filled stretch at the Edinburgh Fringe. As with any city during a festival or high tourist season or... Olympics... the vibe of the city you're left with isn't what you would usually expect to encounter. Thus, I always have a desire to return and experience said environs bereft of such calamities. Stripped down to its most bare, most casual existence. Edinburgh was three hoots and a hoot but you can be sure it's high on my list of places to return when the crowds have subsided, the madness has calmed, and relative normalcy holds sway.

Newcastle, England: Old Friends & New Wizards

After my one-day fun-day in York, the next (and final) destination on the August-England-Itinerary was Newcastle. Well, technically Newcastle upon Tyne as the "new castle," which is very old now but was presumably at one point considered "new," sits upon the Tyne river. One thing you will notice: the Brits as a whole are very logical and pragmatic about their naming. Despite the name, the actual castle, the proximity to Hadrian's wall, and the long tradition as a critical port and manufacturing city, these days Newcastle seems to be known for primarily one thing: partying. Specifically for stag and hen (bachelor and bachelorette) parties which are said to come as far as London to party down up north.

If you've been following Wanderlust for a while, or even if you've only read a few entries, you'll know I love a good party just as much as the next bloak. In reality, probably more than any bloaks within a reasonable proximity. But what drew me to Newcastle was not partying (and certainly not a pre-marriage blowout- thank heavens), but was that I planned to rendezvous with some friends I had made along my travels. Jack and Sarah I met in the sunny beach town of Essaouria, Morocco, and Emily and I met on our harrowing journey from Greensboro to London at the very start of Stint 2. Reunited and it feels so good. Feel free to sing along.

But before I get to all that, the other notable fact about Newcastle was that it marked my second successful attempt at couchsurfing! Whoo! This time I was staying with a really nice guy from Mexico, Eric, who is working on his PhD in Energy at Newcastle University. He lives with three other flatmates, all students, and the four are a really wonderful group of high energy fun loving people. When I arrived in Newcastle Eric was still at work at the University so I dropped my bag at his office and decided to, in typical Mike Steele daytime fashion, wander the streets aimlessly.

Since it was around lunch time and I require some sort of sustenance to continue living, I reckoned it was time to pay heed to that grumbly bastard in my innards. So I stopped into a Northern England staple: Greggs. Greggs is similar to a Pret-a-Manger. For those of you who don't know what that is (and unless you live in NYC or London I don't expect you to), it's simply a shop that sells pre-made sandwiches and "fresh" baked goods. Spotting a special and recognizing an opportunity to knock another English culinary delicacy off my list, I purchased a cheese & onion pastie.

It's basically a flaky pie crust stuffed with baked cheese and onions. Again, pragmatic naming. Tasty, very filling, probably not that healthy, and irreplaceable if you crave the leftover aroma of onions permeating your mouth for the remainder of the day. For the layman, probably worth a try- once. I next met up with my friend Jack who walked me down the main drag to the riverfront (quayside, pronounced "key-side"). An interesting thing to note, around the music hall area all buildings are required to be built in the same style with the same stone (similar to Bordeaux).

Aside from all the bars and pubs, some of the best features to explore in Newcastle are the windy little streets and avenues that snake their way from the city center down along the quayside. And all of their alleys and side streets which branch off, pressing city-ward in a vein-like serpentine fashion.

High above, auto and train bridges tower imposingly over the streets making me feel insignificant. At home. They conjure up ghosts of cruising for pizzas under the Brooklyn Bridge or shopping for groceries to stock that tiny grungy Chinatown flat- way down under the Williamsburg on the Manhattan side. A place so foreign it doesn't feel like you're in Manhattan at all- let alone below Canal Street. Curious where the mind drifts into nostalgia.

After soaking in what Jack called "pretty much everything to see in Newcastle" in under 30 minutes, we stopped to enjoy the uncommonly hospitable Newcastle weather at the quayside. Just across from us was a very interesting footbridge which Jack informed me can actually tilt and close slightly to allow large ships to traverse the canal. That's really cool engineering.

Sarah met up with us after a bit and we ordered some nachos. What!? Yea. But, against all odds from my experience abroad with Mexican food or Southwestern food or any derivative therein, these were actually good. Even the guac tasted like real guac. Well done Newcastle. Around 5pm they dropped me off at Newcastle University so I could meet up with Eric and walk over to his place. 

Along the way we noticed an interesting phenomena that Jack had been telling me about over beers. If you are a very prominent (or often famous) citizen of Newcastle you may be made a "free man of the city." It's similar to getting a key to the city, with the notable exception of one glaring tangible benefit: the right to graze your cattle on public squares. So on the Moor, or in this case Leazes Park (which is surrounded on all sides by apartments and student housing), you are likely to see cows grazing about. Just doing their thing. 

This actually reminds me of a story so I'm going to go off on a brief tangent. When my grandmother died she bequeathed to me in her will one of the cows living on her farm. They (specifically my uncle) raised cattle for beef, but, feeling that it was my cow and I was entitled to do with it whatever I pleased, I demanded that we relocate it to our backyard in suburban Greensboro. I even attempted to persuade my parents that I would train it to become a "guard cow" that would alert us in the event of any intruders. 

As you might imagine, Mom and Dad didn't go for it and I'm sure my cow was eventually sold for beef. Which, I suppose is the way it should have gone but I just want to point out- SEE MOM AND DAD! I WAS RIGHT! IT COULD HAVE WORKED! THEY DO THIS ALL OVER THE GLOBE! (ok, maybe just northern England and Scotland) But hey, seriously. A guard cow. How awesome is that? I smell animated series. This random story actually reminds me... I don't think I ever got paid for my cow... what the eh, Uncle D?

Meanwhile in Newcastle Eric and I are standing next to these cows while I'm telling this story about my grandmother's cow to you, dear reader, and they are getting really antsy because they want to proceed to what we all know will be an endgame of a nice refreshing Newcastle ale. So, without further ado, our intrepid heroes continued forth onto Eric's street where I became suddenly dumbfounded. The street was nice enough. A lovely neighborhood really, but I've never in my life seen so many domiciles in a row that looked EXACTLY the same. I immediately thought- I better pay attention here or I may get lost trying to get back. But, typical me, I didn't listen to myself and this proved detrimental in very short order.

That night I went with Eric's roommate Jit to Bar Loco where we ultimately met up with the rest of the gang including fellow couchsurfer West. West is an interesting cat. A vagabond in the truest sense. He left his native Canada for great global adventures, professing an unlimited timeline and travel appetite. He operates on a budget of 5 pounds a day, proclaims to be a hippie, can do yoga and parkour, plays the flute (sometimes on the streets for cash), loves dancing to dubstep, and doesn't drink. 

Naturally, I never trust a man who doesn't drink, however, I made an exception for West. His uniqueness deserves merit in the annals where such merit would rightfully be recorded. If you see him on the road, ask him about some of his adventures- he has some great stories. And he, like me, absolutely loves finagling. He got a free bike... and then another free bike! I have to respect it. Keep that karma strong though, pal. Anyway, (now the gang has beer in hand and is impatiently waiting to take that first sip) I used the opportunity at Bar Loco to try some local ales!

AHH refreshing! Actually, it was pretty hot that night so the barely-cool ales weren't what I would call technically "refreshing." But they did refresh my near consistent beer-buzz by this point, so we'll let it side. After a while Jack showed up and joined us for a few rounds. Bar Loco is a real hip joint- you're always going to get a good conversation with someone there. Beyond that, they had excellent looking pizza- but considering all the beer I was drinking, I abstained (responsible living... sort of... yay!). Eventually, I had to go to the bathroom to return the beer to the bar and I noticed this:

"Get Away. Heart. Benadorm." Obviously Benidorm is misspelled. That aside, if you've been reading since the beginning of Wanderlust you'll remember my discussion on Benidorm when Claudia, Mark, and I went "benidorming" there one hot afternoon in Spain. Nothing like shamelessly driving web traffic from your own blog back to your blog. Anyway, I found it humorous that Claudia's stories of Benidorm really rang true. Pervasive to the point of pub bathroom graffiti.

When Eric joined us at Bar Loco we came to discover he had sustained a leg injury during his football game that afternoon. As such, he was incapable of riding his bike back to the flat and, being the southern gentleman I am, I volunteered to ride it back for him. Jack and I stayed after everyone else left for a nightcap pint and finally it was time to make my way back. I started off in the direction I knew, however, the ales plus the late hour and the consistent similarity of every single building eventually caused me to take a wrong turn. To make matters worse my iphone died and the map I had didn't go as far out as Eric's apartment.

I had absolutely no idea where I was and ended up riding the bike around in circles for about an hour and a half. Keep in mind this is like 2-3:30am. I'm trying to steer this thing back to his street, dodge traffic, and cling to the slight remnants of my sobriety, all while avoiding pedestrians and other obstacles. Oh, and did I mention I've ridden a bike now THREE times in about fifteen years. The old moniker "just like riding a bike" is total B.S. Especially when English ales are tossed in the mix! Additionally, it's worth noting that the bike I was riding was a girl's bike.

So the image you should have in your head is a large man, pedaling frantically, head swiveling back and forth trying to read street signs that appear the same, darting through traffic yelling "everything looks the same!" All while riding a girl's bike. I would say it should conjure up images of Harrison Ford in Hollywood Homicide where he steals the little girl's bike, screams in anger, and pedals down the street in a blind rage.

As you can imagine, I crashed the bike numerous times. Thankfully doing damage only to me as I would throw myself off the bike and onto the object to prevent damage to the bike. I crashed into telephone poles, street signs, bushes, a man with a dog... Yes, a man with a dog. Let's just forget that part. Anyway, I finally called Jack, woke him up, had him direct me back to Eric's. It was hugely embarrassing but I'm lucky to have great international friends like Jack to help me out. And, thank the gods of poor biking skill, the door was unlocked when I got back so I didn't have to wake up the entire house. Best of all, no pictures of this event exist... and wait, why did I even write about this?? I could have just pretended this never happened and no one could prove otherwise. Oh well, I've typed too much to delete now. You're welcome.

The next day I walked around the Fenham area in Newcastle. Later West and I walked over to the Sage (the really cool music hall across the river) where Sarah was playing in an experimental DJ group which consisted of 13 DJs scratching at the same time while a few string and percussion instruments played.  On the way, West and I stopped briefly to admire THE Newcastle. So here it is:

Back at the Sage, in the midst of this cacophonous production of noise they had a projector which was showing random images with no real connection to the sounds we were hearing. I'd be dishonest if I didn't say that I felt a bit as if we were being brainwashed. Every few minutes or so I looked around the room expecting to see the scene from A Clockwork Orange where Alex has his eyes pried open and is being reprogrammed. I had the website for the show and was going to post the link but I lost the url. Sorry. But, after that show there was live jazz downstairs so we got about 10 minutes of really soothing grooves.

The rest of the night was rather innocuous. Ended up having two Guinnesses at a real cool bar nearby called The Central. Short walking distance from the Sage. I called it an early night. I wanted to see the USA men's basketball team play in the semi-final game (which they weren't showing in lieu of non-Team GB boxing... right BBC, right). On the way back, sober and happy Mike got this picture of the Tyne and Swing bridges at night.

The next day I met up with my newish friend Emily who I met that harrowing day in PTI airport. The plan was to meet up in the middle of town which was accomplished easily enough. The problem was, neither of us knew what to do with the day. As I mentioned, Newcastle is not really known for tourist sites. So with not much to do we ended up just walking and talking. I did snap a cool picture as we went over the Tyne Bridge.

Later we ended up cruising the malls in Newcastle. And I helped her pick out a dress. I honestly can't remember the last time I helped a girl pick out a dress. I was long long overdue. But, irrelevant. That afternoon's experience brings me to a couple of interesting observations. One, it's apparently a huge trend to level large portions of a historic downtown area and construct-in-lieu huge urban shopping malls. If you look at a map of Newcastle, the very epicenter is dominated by a massive series of shopping malls which weave their way through and around the remaining historic buildings. The beating heart of Newcastle has become one of designer goods, air conditioning, and reheated pretzels.

Two, dyed hair. I love dyed hair and tattoos and piercings. Let me just throw that out there. But... the UK is on a horrendous trend that is absolutely devastating the validity of its youth. I first noticed this in Wakefield. I can't tell you the number of women and girls (both!) who I have seen with dyed hair. It's out of control. Blonde and red are the two most popular, but in Newcastle rarely 5 minutes passed without seeing a girl with bright pink hair. Let me tell you something UK: if everyone is doing it, it's NOT COOL ANYMORE. It's just weird and conformist. Moreover, it just makes pink hair unsexy. And that annoys the hell out of me as pink hair (especially in bob format) is one of my favorite styles. It reminds me of when I went to Japan and around 40% of girls had dyed red-brown hair. Dude. It's done. Everyone has done it. Just be yourself.

Third, it was chilly that day. And I noticed that there were a ton of girls roaming around in short shorts and tank tops with no jacket. So Emily and I started discussing the matter and evidently when girls in northern England go out to bars and clubs they flat out refuse to bring a jacket. It could be -10 C and they'll be out in short skirts, pumps, and no coats. Clearly their epidermis nerve endings have been bred out. A horrifying thought. But, to me, it seems a bit of a bravado thing. You're seen as weak if you can't handle the cold without a jacket. Seems silly to me as no self-respecting woman in NYC would dare stroll out into the bitter Manhattan-cold without a jacket. Different strokes.

Next, Nandos. Let me tell you a little bit about Nandos. First, there should be a picture but I was too busy being amazed that I forgot to take one. Nandos is a bit like Chipotle in the states. A high-end chain restaurant that serves sort-of-healthy food, meaning better than fast food but probably not better than you could make for yourself. I's basically a (South African/Portuguese themed) chicken joint that has a ton of different flavors of chicken (varying in heat but all peri-peri). You can get it in sandwich form, or plain or a myriad of other options plus a bunch of sides. And it's like Chipotle in that people are very divided about Nandos. They either love it or hate it. Count me in the camp that loves it. It's damn good and for the money you could do a sight worse.

Finally, before Emily had to go get ready for her big party that night, she took me to a place called Shakeaholic. Oh baby. I'm not very big on sweets but when I see a milkshake megalopolis even I'm taken aback. I know a certain person who would have absolutely fainted at the mere sight of this place. There must be at least 150 ingredients to choose from and you can mix and match. I'm no good with permutations but someone can feel free to compute the number of unique combinations available.  I went with Irish coffee liquer flavor and ground up Lion bar. So good. Here's (part of) the wall of awesomeness.

After watching a bit of the Olympics football final, Emily headed on her way and I tried to see what Eric was up to. He was supposed to be watching the game and cheering on Mexico with his buddies. Mexico ended up beating Brazil (against great odds) but I couldn't get ahold of him. I eventually decided to check Bar Loco but they weren't there. So I started walking towards the flat and as I passed a place called the Strawberry Bar, right next to Newcastle football team stadium, I saw Jit outside having a cigarette. Bingo! So I went in.

Eventually we made it from that bar to Bar Loco and then on to a dorm party in the Newcastle University dorms. Wow! It's been ages since I've been to a real-life dorm party! Check it out! Wait... why is there a 10 year old kid there?? Can you see him? It's like Where's Waldo. Except with children in inappropriate settings. I think he was one girl's son. Ruh-roh.

Anyway, we were joined just prior to the dorm party by a third couchsurfer destined to occupy the 6' x 10' living room space. Yea, it was going to be tight. His name was Alex and he was from Germany, had previously lived in Newcastle, and was coming back for a visit. At some point we thought we had run out of beer so I was drinking a variety of Captain Morgan's rum with a splash of apple juice. Warm. Do NOT recommend. Finally, we decided to leave and head back to Bar Loco. On the way I got to talking with Kara from Portland, Oregon and Monica from Bucharest, Romania. Two awesome ladies studying at Newcastle. Monica offered to show me around in Bucharest (and maybe even put me up in her house :D). Another cliffhanger for a couple weeks from now when I actually make it there. Meanwhile, at Bar Loco, this picture was taken:

Me, Eric, and Alex. Notice that I'm FINALLY, on my last night in Newcastle, actually drinking a Newcastle brown ale. One of the beers I first drank at UNC. One of the first beers I actually liked. You could say that I grew up on that, Bass, and Guinness. It was a glorious and overdue homage. As the night wound down, the birthday girl from the dorms seemed worse for the wear.

And we weren't too far off. The bar had closed and we had run out of beer. But new friend Kara, becoming a wizard in her own right, produced some pops she had commandeered from the party. So we hung out at Bar Loco sipping these artifacts long after the official bar closed. Finally, they were ready to shoo us away but before they did we got a picture of Eric, our awesome host, and the three gentlemen sharing his floor/couch. Me, Alex, Eric, and West the Wiz.

So, you must be thinking. Three dudes. One small space. Sounds a bit cramped. Well, it wouldn't really bother me, especially after those nice Newcastles, however, I was saved miraculously from that potential plight by Kara who offered to let me crash at her place. So I was technically couchsurfing within a couchsurf. Whoa. It's like Inception. We need to go deeper.

Only downside to this tactic is that after a short night's sleep I had to navigate my way back to Eric's in the heavy, sorted, and viscous dawn. Ragged. Shuffling. Perhaps in shambles, or, maybe just the other side of shambles. But it was more than a task to navigate my way back, pack, get myself together, make my way to the station, and eventually catch my train to Edinburgh. I fell asleep mid-breakfast sandwich sitting upright in a chair on the platform. The good news- I'd be meeting up with Michelle and James from York for some serious Fringe Festival action. If I survived the train... where is the rest of that sandwich??.... zzzz.... hm?... zzzz....

York, England: Like New York but Old

At the suggestion of Mike Paradis I decided my next stop in merry-old-England would be a brief tour of the ancient city of York. I felt this appropriate for two reasons: (1) it was on the way to Newcastle and is known for its medieval walls; and (2) having lived in New York for over five years I felt it was my duty to compare my adopted city with the place that first bore its name. After spending a little over 24 hours in York I can firmly say that it in almost no way resembles the great city along the eastern seaboard of America that shares its name. It does, however, have a wonderful and unique charm and I would heartily recommend you add this destination to your England itinerary no matter how brief it may be.

The first thing you notice about York is how ancient the city seems. Even just stepping out of the train station the first thing in your line of sight is the 15 foot medieval wall that stretches around nearly the entire circumference of the Old Town. York was originally established as a Roman military garrison and part of the walls of the old Roman fortress still remain- incorporated into the larger medieval walls constructed around the expanding city.

Likely the most striking feature of the city though is the York Minster (cathedral). It is centuries old (like seemingly all cathedrals I've visited), but is apparently the largest of its particular style in Europe. Subsequent to alighting myself of my pack at the hostel I proceeded to the area of the cathedral to embark on a free tour led by a volunteer for the York historical preservation society. Unlike the Sandeman's free tours (of which I have taken numerous), this particular group does not ask for any tips or contributions. They are merely doing it out of their love for York and its history. Gotta respect that.

Our tour guide that morning was a curious little old fellow. The best way I could describe him is to say that he had the disposition of my grandfather and the countenance of one of Jeff Dunham's hand puppets. To most (if not all) of you, dear readers, that will make absolutely no sense. But due to the difficulty in elaborating plus my own general laziness, I'm afraid it will have to suffice. Moving along.

When you wander around the Old Town you'll likely notice a great number of the historic houses seem to expand as they rise from the ground. That is to say, the second floor juts out further than the first, the third further than the second, and so on. According to our historical oracle (I'm trademarking this term), this was due to the taxing scheme in the old days of York. Residents were taxed on the area of space the house took up on the ground. So to avoid taxes, you made the footprint as small as possible and then expanded as you went up. Clever. This isn't unique to England, however, as you'll see this across most of central Europe.

The first stop on our tour was to examine a portion of the ancient Roman wall, specifically the Eboracum Tower which stood at the western-most corner of the fortress. The original wall went up to where the arches begin, a feature added during the medieval period. The most interesting thing to me is the ring of red bricks in the middle of the wall. During the roman days the red brick was a decorative fixture and would be situated at knee-height all along the wall. So looking at this, you can tell where the ground level was for the original fort.

On the other side of the wall is a beautiful park- the remnants of the gardens of a former abbey that existed up until the monasteries were dissolved by Henry VIII. There was a really cool tradition that is still carried on in the gardens whereby in medieval days the people of the town would gather and each tradesman would enact a bible verse that pertained to his trade. So the bakers and fishers were involved with the fishes and loaves tale and so forth. Since most people couldn't read, this was the best way to convey the stories to everyone. Every few years they will still do this- constructing a stage in front of the remains of the abbey and hosting shows throughout the summer season.

But probably the most distinctive feature of the city of York are the gates placed strategically along the medieval wall. The first one we stopped to look at, and one of the more exquisite, was the Petergate Bar. As our guide said, "in York, a street is a gate, a gate is a bar, and a bar is a pub." Makes sense...? So Petergate Bar means Peter street gate. Ah ha! This gate was evidently the most hotly contested during medieval times as it was the defensive point against clans of marauding Scots or other foreign forces invading from the north. Personally, I just like the decoration and Robin Hood-esque feel of it all.

The greatest thing about the old walls of York is not that they have survived, but that they are and have long been maintained by the citizens of the city. And because they are so well maintained, you are allowed to walk along the walls the entire way around the city. And most places even have guard rails so you don't accidentally plummet to your death. How considerate!

Along the wall you not only get some nice views of the city, but also of the York Minster. Here is the obligatory photo of me in York. Which is important since this post has so much information it must seem like I just plucked it from Wikipedia... which I may or may not have done. (I didn't... mostly).

The next major stop on the walking tour was the Shambles, a street named after the type of window display used in the old days. Originally the street housed York's slaughterhouses and butcheries. Butchers would drop down their windows to create a ledge (shamble) to display their meat. Most of the shops are now cafes, souvenir shops, or restaurants, but you can still see the hooks and chains in the ceilings that were once used to hang carcases of pigs/cows/sheep/etc for butchery. I imagine the stench of the Shambles on a hot summer day must have been overwhelming. Perhaps that's where the term being in "shambles" comes from.

The tour ended in front of a famous old house that has stood for well over two hundred years. In the last 30 or so years, however, due to the constant foot and auto traffic along the street, the house has begun to sag in the middle as the vibrations are causing it to settle out at a rapid and uneven pace. The price you pay for progress I suppose. Interestingly, next to it is a pub called the Golden Fleece. I find this exceptionally interesting because outside the pub is a sheep being hoisted in a fashion that looks strikingly similar to the Brooks Brothers logo (also described as "golden fleece"). Here is a bit of the answer.

Traveling around in Wakefield and now York I noticed a rather peculiar feature: shops selling hand-carved meat sandwiches. If upon reading that the first thing that came to mind was Katz Deli: (1) I agree with you; and (2) you're probably living in NYC (or at least are a big fan of When Harry Met Sally or the Food Network). For those of you who didn't, you're the sane ones (but you're really missing out... mmm... pastrami). Passing by another one of these places and unable to resist again, I acquired a roast beef sandwich with mustard and horseradish sauce. Wow.

Looking for a place to devour this delight, I wandered into the garden of one of the oldest churches in York. Interestingly, the congregation of this church, when they died, were buried INSIDE the church itself- under the floor. Because so many layers of burials were done and done at different times, the floor inside the church is slanted and uneven. Additionally, it features something I had never seen before. Instead of pews facing the altar, there are boxes facing in unto themselves where families would go to sit, read, and pray as a unit.

For the rest of the afternoon I walked along the city wall, first coming to the Walmgate Bar which is the only gate that retains the original barbicon. This was used as a preliminary gate before the main gate so that if intruders broke through they would be corralled into a small courtyard where arrows, hot oil, tar, Katy Perry music, or whatever would rain down on them until they could break through the main gate or died or gave up. Which ever came first.

Near the southeastern portion of the wall you can also see the remnants of the castle keep that once protected the city: Clifford's Tower. It's actually not that impressive and even more unimpressively they charge you to go in it. Since I refused to pay to go inside I don't really know much about it, but it's fairly small so if you have 1.5-3 minutes to spare (depending on your walking speed) it might be worth walking around it.

Back along the wall and close to the train station (and coincidentally my hostel) lies maybe the most impressive of the gates: the Mickelgate bar. This particular gate is the one used whenever royalty or anyone of importance needs to be paraded through the city. Also it looks cool and maybe, like, has a coffee shop or something in it. I don't know, I was getting tired by this point.

The end of the wall eventually brought me back to where I started, and as you stroll down the last segments you are provided a lovely view of York Minster, the Lendall Bridge, and the Minster Quarter.

I've just realized that this post has an absurdly high amount of pictures. So I'll leave you with just two more. First, to kill some time before meeting up with my new Aussie friends/roommates at the hostel, I chilled out for a bit and then headed back up toward the northern part of the Old Town where I popped into the Cross Keys pub for a pint of real ale. I happened to glance at my glass and notice something which I thought funny.

"Pint 2043." The first thought in my head was "Wow, have I really had that many beers on this trip? Actually, that could be about right. But how the hell do they know that!?" After composing myself from the shock of barman's apparent clairvoyant sorcery, I happened to notice that I was watching Olympic basketball next to a priest. A father. A man of the cloth, if you will. And he, like me, was drinking ale and watching basketball. Wait, what?

Yes, he was drinking ale and watching basketball. I wasn't hallucinating. Curious, I struck up a conversation with him only to discover that he's originally from Charlotte, went to Duke for theology, and has been living in England for the past 10 years. It really is a small world after all. After a brief chat (back and forth Duke/UNC banter) and finishing his ale he excused himself as he had a bible study class to teach. Which, upon thinking about it, makes total sense why he was steadying his nerves with a pint or two, ha.

Back at the hostel we rounded up the crew and while everyone was preparing themselves for what would be a night of ale drinking, British karaoke watching, automatic cigarette rolling, Guatemalan heritage claiming, and piggyback racing, I had Michelle take this picture of me looking very regal in the lobby of our historic hostel.

As the last sentence hopefully conveyed, it was a fun night out in York and thankfully the pubs all shut down by 1am so that I felt relatively refreshed and rejuvenated when I awoke the next morning to catch my train to Newcastle. York- definitely worth a visit. And if you do go, see if you can get to the bottom of the one mystery which eluded me: the York peppermint patty.