Scotland. I've been here before. I remember my sister poking fun at me because I had written something in my diary about a 'gleaming sign' welcoming us to Scotland as we drove over the border in the camper van our parents had hired for the trip. She thought it was a funny thing to notice, and an even funnier thing for me to have written down in my diary.
There is a kind of gleaming welcome though here - something young, bright and fresh that's hard to put your finger on. It feels like Bath a bit, somehow, long ago.
I persuaded myself out of getting the taxi from the airport, and voted my committee of one firmly in favour of the tram instead. It wasn't much of a decision. £5 takes you the 6.6 miles into the heart of Edinburgh, and right along Princes Street. I got the feeling I was within walking distance of pretty much everywhere - the Scott Monument, the Castle, The Royal Mile, Holyrood, Haymarket... the whole place, it seemed. I peered carefully through the window as the city went by in a bright blur of sights and shops.
It was dark by the time I reached my hotel. Buses with odd-sounding destinations hurried by. Penicuik, Riccarton, Gogar and Craigmillar, all emblazoned like strange orange words. Some of the brightly lit establishments were still open, selling high-end shoes, and tartan whisky to tourists. Above the modern, wide-fronted shops, the old facades still loomed over, deep and dark. A yellowing clock-face hung like the moon in a blackened old building. The Scott Monument, illuminated at the end of the street, looked gothic and imposing as it presided over it all. Scott himself was sat in white marble at the bottom, looking dour and unimpressed.
I thought I was in the wrong place at first. White Corinthian pillars, exquisite wooden detailing, a cavernous parquet floor in an art-deco style. Leather armchairs were positioned carefully in the bar and fine art cluttered the walls between the gold-fronted elevators and grand sweeping staircases.
It would appear that I am staying in 1926 for the next few days. Instinctively, I changed my accent to BBC RP-super-posh and checked in. I think I even threw in a 'splendid' when it was all done. I chuckled to myself as I wandered the plush corridors in search of my room.
A short shower, some Beethoven, and a cup of green tea later, I was ready to hit the streets and find some dinner. Now, being a naturally classy culture-vulture, I decided I would go Italian for the first night. I had already discovered that this magnificent city is replete with interesting food places - Mexican, Spanish, Peruvian I think I saw, as well as the usual range of Korean, Thai, Indian and Nepalese palaces.
And therefore, I think it might have been my highly-refined sensibility that led me, almost inexorably, to Pizza Express.
Alright. I was tired and I suddenly quite liked the idea of a pizza. I had forgotten that their pizzas are a bit more like 12-inch spicy biscuits, but hey, I had a glass of Merlot and all was well with the world. It wasn't pizza a legno, cooked over the wooden fire of a Neopolitan farmhouse, but that's ok - I'm in Edinburgh. And sure, you'd never show the bruschetta to an actual Italian, but again, it filled a hole after all that travelling.
So, here I am. I've not seen much yet (it's dark) but I'm already feeling relaxed. I've taken the extraordinary leap of planning out tomorrow, figuring out a flexible framework for fun and freedom. Plus, I've begun the journey of the Great Rebalancing, hoping that I can get my emotions, my mind, my heart and my sleep back into line.
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