We're couchsurfing with a wine and whiskey merchant. In Scotland. Holy bananas, how did I get here?
I'm in Lochgilphead. It was a rather embarrassing experience hitchhiking here and telling our three rides... "Umm... I'm not really sure how to pronounce it... but...errr... we're going to Loch..GIL.. fead? LochgilPEAD? LOCHgilphead? You happen to be going anywhere close to anything that sounds like that?"
The waitress has already told us that if we ask for water one more time, she's going to charge us thirty pence. I'm starting to feel a wee bit uncomfortable in my red window seat.
We're only going to stay another half hour or so... we just have to wait for Stuart to close his wine shop. Please don't kick us out before then... the weather is crap right now. Even for Scotland. Which is saying something.
Boy and I left Andrew's on Tuesday morning.
Our first time hitching together. Boy's first time hitching, period. My first time hitching in Scotland. Here we go.
We walked (for what seemed like hours) to the outskirts of Dundee and found a decent spot near the bottom of a hill for a car to pull over.
It would be better at the top of a hill... when cars are going a little slower... but this'll do, I suppose. Mostly because I refuse to carry Ellie another step.
"Are we doing this?" I asked Boy.
"We're doing this."
If we can't find a ride, we can walk for hours to get back to Dundee. And then take the bus to Aberdeen. So if we can't find a ride, it's not the end of the world. Not by the longest of shots.
So we stuck out our thumbs. A few cars whizzed by with tunnel-visioned drivers, and I started to feel self-conscious.
That feeling of being deliberately ignored is so unpleasant. Dehumanizing. I feel embarrassed to be here.
Then one person gave us a thumbs up. Another honked his horn and waved. Another threw her hands up in the air, as if to say, "Wish I could stop, but there's nothing I can do."
People in Scotland seem so supportive of hitching... I mean, I realize I'm making a generalization after about ten minutes into the process, but still. In Croatia, I'd occasionally get the middle finger. Maybe a few people showed support, but just as many people flipped me off.
Those few gestures of acknowledgment lifted my spirits. Boy and I laughed. We joked. The disconcerting feeling of "I shouldn't be here... " melted away.
And then someone pulled over.
There are few feelings that lead to such profound exhilaration and gratitude as a car pulling over after half an hour of standing on the side of the road.
Boy and I rushed to the window and asked the driver where she was off to.
"Aberdeen," she replied, eyeballing our enormous bags.
"Perfect! That's where we're heading. Thanks so much for pulling over."
So we all crammed into Moira's posh car (Boy, me, and our intimidating bags) and traveled the whole 67 miles to Aberdeen, making far better time than we would have if we'd taken the bus. And getting to share the journey with Moira, who shared her story and told us a thing or two about Aberdeen.
"The economy revolves around oil in Aberdeen," she explained. "Since petrol prices have dropped to nothing, a lot of people are out of work."
Five dollars a gallon for petrol is next to nothing? Goodness. She should see petrol prices in Grand Junction. I think it was 2.30 a gallon when I left in June.
"Do you get a lot of hitchhikers around here?" I asked as we neared our destination.
"No, actually. You're only the second hitch hikers I've seen," she mused. "It's not so popular these days. Not sure why."
Moira dropped us off in the city center of Aberdeen.
Our next host, an Indian fellow named Veera, wouldn't be available to meet us until after five, so we lingered in parks and cafes until evening. Picnicking, journaling, people watching, sipping coffee and listening to the odd bagpipe.
What an idyllic afternoon. Sometimes I struggle to believe that this kind of life is real.
 |
| William Wallace |
The rest of our time in Aberdeen feels like it all blended together somehow. For me, the things that tend to stand out are my memorable experiences with hosts. Veera was very hospitable, but also quite distant. As in, he wordlessly took himself out to a movie our second night in his living room and messaged us from the theatre, asking if we would let in some new couchsurfers who would arrive around 9:30.
So my memories of Aberdeen are the pianist playing songs from the Titanic and Les Miserables, bagpipers on the corners, the way the grey city melted into the grey sky, and the cute little fishing village that Aberdeen encroached upon many years ago.
The distance between Aberdeen and Inverness is 105 miles.
The most I've ever hitched in one day is... 150 miles? So this isn't the greatest distance, but it's still a bit intimidating. And Inverness isn't the straight shot from here like Aberdeen was from Dundee. Roads wind in and out of little villages and towns. And Inverness itself isn't a huge enough hub that people will be going straight there from Aberdeen. We'll probably spend about... six hours getting there.
Veera dropped us off outside of town on his way to work the next morning, where we thanked him for his couch, the wine and the ride. He wished us luck and then sped off to work.
"Here we go again," I smiled at Boy. "What time is it?"
"8:15."
"Okay. I bet it'll take us six hours to get to Inverness."
"No... won't be more than four."
"FOUR? Nah. Definitely six."
"You're so pessimistic."
"You're so optimistic."
We stuck out our thumbs, and for a good while, it seemed as if even my prediction was optimistic. Car after car sped by, drivers shaking their heads but giving us encouraging honks and waves. Finally, at around 9:00, a van lurched to a stop.
"We're not going far," the woman said, "but it's further along than you are now."
"We'll take it," we placed our bags in the back, next to a brightly colored, wee bicycle.
"What's your name?" Boy asked. Boy is always excellent at asking for (and remembering) names.
"I'm Jenny, " our driver replied. "And this is Kai."
"I'm wearing pants," Kai informed us, beaming with grownup pride.
"Pants?" I asked, forgetting (as I always do) that pants mean underwear in the UK.
"He's chuffed that we've run out of diapers and now he's wearing pants," his mother clarified.
"Wow, good for you!" I congratulated the little boy in the front seat.
When Tessa and I hitched through Eastern Europe, only one woman pulled over for us. In five weeks of hitching. So far in Scotland, our only two rides have been with women. I love that in this country, ladies feel safe enough to stop. Even with kids in the car.
Jenny dropped us off at a fairly inconvenient location, so Boy and I walked for a good half an hour to get to our next spot, passing several people who asked where we were off to, and then told us, "Aye, you'll find a lift. Someone will be going that way."
As if the only issue is whether or not people are going in that direction. That they'll stop is just... assumed. Like, if people are going the same direction, of course they'll stop.
After a half hour walk (during which I cursed myself multiple times for packing so many damn yoga pants), we found a safe enough place where drivers could pull over. So we plunked down our bags, faced the oncoming traffic, smiled and stuck out our thumbs.
Jillian and her ten year old daughter, Aspen, pulled over. Aspen studies Highland dancing, Jillian teaches Highland dancing, and both were on their way to Elgin to get a new car.
"I picked you up because Troy looks like my son. With the long hair and everything. And this seems like something my son would do. I hope people pull over for him."
The rest of the journey, we chatted about aspen trees, Scotland, Colorado and how much Aspen loves American style pancakes.
Another fifteen minute walk to a hitching place. Another twenty minutes of sticking out our thumbs. And John pulled over.
John may be the most hardcore ex-hitcher I've ever met. He decided it would be an adventure to hitch from Belgium to India in the 80s. As in, right after the revolution in Iran and whilst Iran and Iraq were at war. When he arrived at the border of Iran, the Iranians deported him to... Iraq. The country they were at war with. This deportation stamp on his passport did not look good. So passport control at Iraq deported him. To Syria. John's passport was stamped in Syria, but he wasn't deported. Israel thought all this looked a mite suspicious, however, and thought it would be a good idea to imprison John for three weeks. After which they took all his money (because they'd fed him in prison) and sent him not to Scotland, but to Egypt.
With no money.
A random Egyptian guy in the marketplace told John to cheer up (apparently John was looking a wee bit depressed), and John explained his series of unfortunate deportations. Then the random Egyptian guy invited John into his home and became John's fund raiser. After a couple of weeks in Egypt, they'd gathered enough money to send John back to Scotland.
So that's why John picked us up. And probably why he drove thirty minutes out of his way to drop us off at a better location.
From this better location, Gregor picked us up. Gregor was Polish and didn't speak much English, but was kind enough to share his garbage truck with us and drop us in the city center of Inverness.
It took us five hours to travel the 105 miles from Aberdeen to the capital of the Highlands.
"You optimistically said it would take four hours. I pessimistically said it would take six.The universe realistically said it would take five," I told Boy as we made our way to Maris' home.
No comments:
Post a Comment