Quality Time With Our Former Colonial Overlords (Or, Neil's Trip To The UK)

Episode 10: All Good Things Come To London

Well friends, you've survived chapter after chapter of travel blabber and are mercifully close to the end. Although it's been over one month since happy time ended, I am still experiencing flashes of the crushing sadness and panicked anxiety that I felt in those final days, when I would have loved nothing better than to be able to stay in the UK forever.

Day 1: London Chinatown
At first, I was so shocked to see the sun out at 9:15 PM. So I got into the habit of taking pictures of my watch and wherever I happened to be around this time. Didn't always get the shot on-time (or at all), but it became a nice way to keep track of my trip.

Even as my time on holiday crept closer to its bittersweet finale, the tourism train remained on course and we didn't relent in our goal to cram as much stuff into the final days as possible, until the very last minute on British soil. Although we had already accomplished a great deal within a short amount of time, there is always something more to see and do in the UK. Even if your wallet runs dry from binging on musicals, you still have weeks worth of free museums to wander through. It is indeed a place of beauty.

Day 2: Along the Thames with Big Ben
G.W. Bush was in town at this very moment, mere blocks away, complete with a warm welcome from violent protesters. We were just annoyed that streets and Tube entrances were closed for "security." The helicopters overhead didn't help maintain serenity either...

My initial reaction to Britain remained consistent until the end. I loved it all with genuine heart (except the maddening extra charge for all eat-in items at coffee shops and takeaways). Gorgeous, humbling architecture so plentiful you run out of "WOW"s after a day of wandering. Enough entertainment, culture, and food options to put you in so much debt that your college loans would blush. Shopping at stores with real sales that don't require hard bargaining or any additional stress to the ticker. Double-decker buses. The Oyster Card. Cashpoints, not ATMs. Richly layered history dripping from everything you see and touch. The Union Jack. Nature in technicolor, as it was meant to be, from vibrant emerald grass to sky blue skies teeming with whipped cream clouds. Getting a good laugh from guys wearing skinny jeans so tight it looked like their balls were trying to shawshank their way out of the denim. Full-frontal nudity and cussing on the BBC after 10pm. Harry Potter. The sensational adrenaline rush you get as you run across the street, praying you don't get hit, but too confused to know which way to look before crossing. That strange, musty smell that was ubiquitous in all the loos. And the people. How could I forget the people?

Day 3: Piccadilly, post-Mamma Mia
This was the day we failed to see Coldplay, hence resorting to the warm comfort of ABBA.

The citizens of Britain, however authentic you believe them to truly be, were a delight. Of course I don't mean ALL of them. But a large enough segment to warrant my current Anglo hard-on. I may be a little indulgent in my doe-eyed raves, but come on, look what I have to work with on a daily basis in China. Cut a Yank some slack! I stand by my claim: the Brits were great. Embarrassingly reserved by day, frighteningly boisterous by night; polite and mannered on the surface, critical and judgmental within. The weird dichotomies that abound create a national epidemic of split-personality disorder. Since I share similar neuroses, I felt a familiar comfort that eludes me in the US and China.

Yet, at the end of the day, that feeling of admiration is likely not reciprocal. Polite and mannered as I may be, nothing in my arsenal could compare to that of a true Brit. They see through my American guise immediately and no amount of garble-accented "sorry" or "cheers" will ever change that fact. Not that I'd ever want it to. I could never repress the sunny American disposition that creates a need for physical contact, verbal affirmation and consistent smiling, no matter how much I love the Brits with their chilly demeanor and proper austerity.

Day 4: On the coach from London to Bath
The National Coach services really are convenient. Clean, kinda reliable, and without the heart-stopping fear you get with Chinese drivers. And no horn-honking. So lovely.

In spite of its relative brevity, my whirlwind trek through the UK had to end. Unfortunately for you, that also means these thrilling accounts have come to a close. From the stylish streets of London to the grand antiquity of Bath, through medieval Edinburgh to the wilderness of the Highlands, I sincerely hope you enjoyed the journey, even if it was just a fleeting, vicarious pleasure. Ideally, you'll be inspired to make a similar jaunt of your own.

Day 6: Edinburgh Airport
Where'd Day 5 go!?! Flushed down the toilet in a drunken stupor. So here we are on Day 6, having just arrived in Edinburgh, after a 1-hour flight from Bristol on the awesome Easyjet.

In the final days, the gravity of the impending return to Shanghai loomed over my head like one of Pooh's little black rain clouds. Perhaps more severe than the relapsing culture shock experienced after a trip back to America, the prospect of crawling back into the polluted womb of China was too much to fathom. Especially with all Olympic jingo-bullshit flooding into every open orifice in the country.

Day 7: On Princes Street in Edinburgh
After a full day of serious sightseeing at the Castle and in the Closes.

After spending two weeks in a relatively civil society built upon manners and decorum (however artificial) and tasting European history and culture firsthand, I entertained thoughts of faxing my resignation to my bosses in Shanghai and saying to hell with the overflow of possessions in my tiny apartment. But sense and reality always have a way of stifling those impulsive thoughts of mine and I reluctantly boarded the plane.

Day 8: Edinburgh Bus
Is that rain in the background? Why yes. After a day in the Highlands, all clear and temperate, we returned to a frigid 10 degree C rainstorm in the capital. Delicious Italian dinner wolfed down with the quickness, we wanted nothing more than to get back to the B&B.

Immediate yet premature reminiscing of my phenomenal time in England was instantly ruined by the pig sitting next to me. In all my years of light-hearted complaining about the mainlanders and the gaping abyss that is proper social protocol, I have never, NEVER, been this shocked by someone's behavior. Please trust that I'm being quite gravely serious here.

This girl, who couldn't have been older than 30, was the embodiment of every ill currently being plaguing the new generations of Chinese society that I hate so much. More than a Little Empress, she was the epitome of self-centered garbage without so much as a speck of regard for those around her. Sprawled out in her seat, arms hanging over the headrest and legs spread eagled, crotch unceremoniously jut forward like she was advertising at Tsukiji, she chewed her gum with a gaping maw, lips curled in an awful sneer. Before take-off, she kicked the seat in front of her no less than 20 times as she shifted positions in a manner more befitting a clumsy troll than a graceful elf. The poor chap sitting beside her - the pitiful boyfriend - was on the receiving end of a few pushes, slaps and kicks, the annoying jerky elbow jabs that spoiled brats like to throw when in the midst of a tantrum.

After getting hit with a few recoils, the polite reserve I had acquired from two weeks of English osmosis was beginning to run out. Biting my lip and closing my eyes, I had to find my happy place, as my neighbour's spasms and complaints continued at an infuriating pace. When the food arrived mid-flight, she spied a pile of spinach on her boyfriend's tray and, without an ounce of dia-dia cuteness, she declared "my spinach." (wo de bo cai), reached over and grabbed it. Boyfriend gave a pitiful half-frown and did not protest. A defeated man clearly resigned to this kind of behaviour. When he made a motion to take a bag of peanuts that she had left sitting on her tray table, unopened and ignored for hours, she slapped his hand, gave him the "why the fuck are you so stupid" face, and coldly stated "you can't eat it, you're a fat pig" (ni bu neng chi, ni pang zhu). Chewing the spinach with an open mouth, feet still propped up against the chair in front, I secretly yearned for her to choke on it and die a slow and painful death.

Day 10: Above Edinburgh
I must say, Scotland was one of the most amazing places I've ever been. I was genuinely sad to leave. Wait, what's that? Day 9? If you really must know, I was busy shitting myself in a mausoleum when it came time for the daily shot, so you'll forgive me for being distracted.

My breaking point came during the final lull in our journey, while everyone was peacefully sleeping or enjoying the in-flight entertainment. Lost in an episode of Family Guy, my arm was suddenly and forcefully pushed off the arm rest as she lifted it up in a huff. I couldn't believe she had dared to be so forthcoming in her impolite flirtations, so I firmly put the arm rest down and replanted myself in position. And she did it again, with a quick elbow jab to my bicep. At that point, I really didn't care anymore, so I slammed it back down, so so satisfyingly on her leg, shoving her back into her seat territory. She slowly and deliberately pulled off her eye-mask (provided by Virgin, such luxury!) and looked me dead in the eye, saying "I want this up" (wo jiu shi yao fang shang qu). As if she could threaten me with those lifeless mainland eyes. Dumbfounded, I drew my face close to her's and replied "I'm using it" (wo jiu shi yao yong), as I pressed the arm rest down against her with perversely pleasurable might.

I think she got the point. Perhaps it was the first time someone denied her. She made a pouty face, pulled the mask back over her ugly face, shifted positions and kicked her feet over her sleeping boyfriend's lap, scaring the crap out of him in the process. For the remainder of the journey, she attempted to push me a few more times, but I remained firm, unwavering, and she relented. The whole ridiculous situation was entirely new to me and, after the initial urge to slit her throat with my plastic knife subsided, I continued to passive-aggressively huff and puff, blocking her attacks when necessary, laughing whenever she tried (and failed) to move that arm rest, and tried my best to keep composed until we landed in Shanghai. With the animosity fully out in the open, the back and forth was pretty entertaining.

Day 11: Hot Pot dinner in Clevelands Building, Bath University
On my last night in Bath, I had a filling ma-la hot pot dinner with new friends who I had taken quite happily to in the few days that I visited.

That rude little tart on the plane was a painful reminder of the awful reacclimation ahead of me. Her horrid behavior was the most extreme experience of social retardation - Chinese or otherwise - that I've ever witnessed. You'd think that having reached this pinnacle before touchdown would make the return to Chinese soil easier. Wrong wrong wrong. In the two weeks I was absent, Chinese efficiency remained status quo (i.e. non-existent), airport bureaucracy was rendered even more bumbling, and new security measures enacted for the goddamned Olympics (I swear, I will be so happy when they are over and we never have to hear of Beijing 2008 ever again) exacerbated the headache threatening to blow my brain out of my temples. It took me 2 hours just to get out of the airport. I was beginning to regret getting on that plane.

Day 13: Les Miserables
Oh what a show. We approached the classic with some trepidation, afraid the hype of 25+ years wouldn't deliver. So so wrong. It's a close second to Phantom, which is quite something in my book. After the show, we emerged to a rain shower and a celebratory mob cheering the Spanish Euro Cup victors. They were so raucous that a distracted bus crashed into a lorry in the middle of Piccadilly Circus. Awesome. (Oh yeah, and on Day 12 at this time, I was busy getting assaulted at the Radiohead concert)

When I stepped out into the humidity and stank of the summer air, the initial shock ripped me straight back to reality. The trip was officially done. No more pleasantries with strangers, no more comfortably chilly climate, no more uncensored living. After the plane ride from hell and the work week mere hours away, I felt desperate. Why the fuck did I have to come back? Head hanging low, I plopped into a taxi and covered my eyes with a heavy hand to shade the glaring midday sun. Feeling bitter and disappointed, maybe a little teary-eyed, I just wanted to get home and delay the inevitable return to daily life in China.

Day 14: Wicked
The last day of the trip, spent with the witches of Oz.

Making admirable small talk, the jovial driver asked me about my trip and continued to chatter about the weeks of typhoon rain that had flooded Shanghai in my absence. I nodded politely in return, distracted by memories of the cool breezes and unpolluted skies in London. With a beaming smile, she paused, leaned over and said that I had brought the sun back with me. Pulling my hand from my eyes, I gazed out the window, taking in the vista for the first time. It was actually a beautiful day in Shanghai. As much as it hurt to be back, I couldn't justify further resentment. It is not Shanghai's fault that it's not as awesome as London. No place is as awesome as London. We don't penalize a hamburger because it's not as delicious as a filet mignon, so why should the same judgment be wrought on completely different cultures? Thus Shanghai remains home for now and I'll keep my whining to a minimum. I had just spent 2 weeks on holiday after all. And England, in all her majestic glory, claims top spot for the best trip I've ever been on.

For more pictures of the trip, please head over to Flickr: London, Bath, and Scotland. Thanks for reading.

Quality Time With Our Former Colonial Overlords (Or, Neil's Trip To The UK)

Episode 9: The Highland Hop

I. Return To The Highlands

The landscape of the Scottish Highlands is one of the most stunning sights your retinas will ever have the honour of processing. At points rough and barren, like the tundra in Northern Canada, at times lush and colorful like summertime in the Rocky Mountains, the Highland area is the natural symbol of Scotland.

How Quaint!

With precious little time (and money) to spend on our excursion, we could only manage a one-day tour of the area. This is criminally brief. If you take a quick look at a map, you can see how lofty a trek that is. We traveled a total of 550 km, enjoying the beauty from the bus windows and listening to our entertaining native Scot guide/driver, Steve, who was wise enough to stop at important photo-ops, lest we experience a bus mutiny. From Edinburgh to Loch Ness and back again, we circled Northern Scotland in about 12 hours of driving.

Start In Edinburgh, Trace Your Chubby Finger NW to Loch Ness, Then Back Down
(Courtesy of Lonely Planet)

From atop the Royal Mile, we began our long day of drive-by, marathon tourism. With the majority of our time spent on our trusty Highland Experience bus, Nessie, I was worried it would be an endurance test for patience and buttock circulation. However, Steve's narration - in native Scottish brogue - was entertaining and educational enough to keep me and my notebook very busy.

How clever! It took me half the day to notice this, to which Steve commented that I was rather slow.

Exiting Edinburgh through the north, we spanned the Firth of Forth to Queensferry and spotted the Forth Road and Rail Bridges. At about 1.5 miles in length, the Forth Road Bridge was once the longest suspension bridge outside the United States. For only a few months in 1964. Then its position was usurped unceremoniously by the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge that connects Brooklyn Zoo to luxurious and noble Staten Island. Nowadays, the Forth Road Bridge is often mistaken for the trapezoidal Forth RAIL Bridge, its much more interesting and attractive sister to the East. Road now stands as only the 20th longest suspension bridge in the world, with chart placement set to plummet even further as China continues its attempts to out-big everyone in the world.

Compare and Contrast: Road vs. Rail. I take the Rail any day...
(to embiggen awesome panorama, click here)

Barreling along the highway, fluffy white clouds lazing about overhead in the blue sky, we entered the Kingdom of Fife, olde mining capital of Scotland and the birthplace of golf. Gee, mining and golf? Zzzzzzz....

Off the road and to the east, we were directed to a distant island at the center of Loch Leven, where there stood a lonely castle. No, Shrek and Donkey were not inside doing perverted ogre things to Fiona. This was home to one of the many dark stories from Scottish history that Steve would animatedly recount (all goddamned day) for our listening pleasure.

In Loch Leven castle, Mary, Queen of Scots - the unfortunately Catholic 6 foot tall giant - was imprisoned and forced to abdicate the throne to her infant son, James, oh he of eponymous-Bible-version fame. One of many ignominious episodes in her dramatic adult life. Despite the fact that her blood flows through the veins of all British royalty to this day, she wasn't given much respect in life and, when she was finally put out of her misery by opposing religious and political forces, it took the reluctant executioner 3 hacks to behead her. The first one supposedly missed her soft goose-like neck, hitting her in the back of the skull; the second mercifully severed most of her head; and the third finished off the final pesky sinew. We should really consider bringing back this time-honoured tradition as an entertaining method to depose current pesky administrations.

Mary, QoS's ivory remains (Head Intact)

When Steve mercifully paused his painfully dramatic narration of tragic Scottish history, popping in a disc of bangin' New Age bagpipe remix joints by the Red Hot Chili Pipers (feat. Timbaland....just kidding, but I totally had you for a minute, admit it), I tried to take in as much of the scenery as possible. Roadside signs heralded the proximity of towns with fantastically absurd names like Killiecrankie and Kingussle, or those with monikers so silly I thought only the Aussies could concoct, like Perth and Dundee. However, as usual, I'm misinformed. Turns out there are a bunch of Scottish place names in Oz that I can only assume were introduced by Scot prisoners. They probably brought the penchant for sheep-shagging to New Zealand as well, for all I know. Luckily for everyone's favourite crocodile-hunting Outback bloke, they decided to use the name they did. No matter how big his knife was, can you imagine how ineffectually intimidating a dude named Crocodile Scone would have been?

Yum! I miss Sally Lunn...

Our first pit stop of the tour was in the tongue-tying ghost town of Pitlochry, which is seemingly kept in existence purely as a coach bus rest area, like that place with the Roy Rogers on the way from Boston to NYC on the Chinatown bus. Once the exclusive home to the area's lawyers, who shook down both criminals and their victims from the rough northern lands, it now scheists suckers of a different sort: tourists and their well-earned pounds. To avoid the dangers of slipping into boredom coma, Steve only gave us a half hour to aimlessly wander about. This was barely enough time to whizz in the pay-per-pee public loos and scarf down some heartburn on a plate (see: English breakfast) before our caravan continued North.

Is it too late to move here?

Winding around the quaint and grassy fields, we passed plot after plot of storybook cottages, lovely little stone abodes covered in ivy, delicate wildflowers and country charm. As we looped further through the hills, we abruptly broke free from the comforting spoon of the lowlands and were suddenly surrounded by gaping flat expanses, scarred by eons of glacial abuse and peppered with towering mountains ejected from the bowels of the Great Glen fault line below. This was the domain of the towering Ben Nevis (from the Gaelic: Beinn Nibheis) - tallest mountain in Britain - and, more importantly, the ancestral homeland to Donald and Scrooge of Clan McDuck.

Rannoch Moor, location of McDuck Castle and birthplace of everyone's favourite Disney Afternoon cheapskate prick (Thanks again, Wiki)

Translation: God, these travelblogs are so bloody awesome.
(Courtesy of Wiki)

II. The Real Highlanders

The Highlands of Scotland. This is what Tolkien envisioned when he imagined Rohan. It must have been, because it's the first thing I thought of when we entered the realm of the Great Glen. Hard, rocky earth. Stingy grasslands with nary enough to feed a herd of sheep. Dark, spooky patches of coniferous forest, no doubt teeming with Ents. Sparse blessings of purple heather wildflowers for the herds of deer frolicking on the plains and causing mayhem for highway drivers. Waves of undulating hilly lumps as far as the eye could see. I think I saw Eowyn flashing me from afar, but it could have been a hallucination brought upon by the blood pudding I had for breakfast.

Gorgeous, even in shite weather.

Lopsided

The vast expanse was overwhelming and claustrophobic in its emptiness. Although there was a healthy presence of hill and mountain, the spacious gap from one to another render those natural wind-blockers impotent. In colder seasons, it must be unforgiving. Even in the middle of summer, it was chilly and blustery. You can understand how more people die atop Ben Nevis of exposure than those claimed by Everest; radical weather and temperature shifts can easily trick a gang of novice backpackers. Fortunately we overpacked clothing layers, sparing us the discomfort of hypothermia and death. As beautiful as the area is, who could possibly live in a climate so capricious? A bunch of hard asses, that's who, and we were on their turf. We had finally arrived in the home of the Highlanders.

Gollum Is In There Somewhere...

The Highlanders, a rough and tumble folk that have come to define the stereotypical view of a Scot, were probably descendants of the Picts, wild tribes of Celtic people who lived in the areas well before the Romans invaded and renamed it Caledonia. I'm pretty sure they weren't immortal sword-slayers who could time travel, but Hollywood has its way of turning fiction to fact. The genuine Highlanders were supposedly warm and welcoming mortals, opening their homes to anyone in need, hence the idea of Highland hospitality.

Filthy Imperial Roman Artwork (beautiful, ain't it?)

Thank God For This: Real Letters for those barbarians

In the Western Highland area of Glencoe, this hospitality was grievously betrayed in a famous act of British imperial terrorism. We've all heard about the shameful practice of sperminating virgin Scottish brides on their wedding nights, which was a way to ensure English genetics would impregnate the Highland women before their poor, emasculated husbands had a go (refer back to Braveheart for a cinematic reenactment). British devils even went so far as to cruelly target overweight Highland warriors in those popular Austin Powers documentaries. However, nothing compared to Glencoe.

Glen Coe - home of Holy Grail's Bridge Of Death and Gorge Of Eternal Peril

During a brutal blizzard in 1692, English soldiers sought refuge in the McDonald clan village. For 10 days, they lived with this Highland family, eating their food, using their homes and sleeping in their beds. After the storm cleared, man-in-charge Robert Campbell was given orders by superiors to exterminate everyone under seventy years of age. Supposedly, they were "rebels" - even the children. In the first few hours, about 50 were slain. Even though many managed to escape, over 70 lost their lives. Centuries later, I can see how some segments of Scottish society still call for independence from England and secession from the United Kingdom. It's still a very sore subject and Steve actually got choked up telling the story. I'm getting a little emotional now too (probably from the chocolate I just ate), so let's return to sunnier subjects, like ancient Highland life.

Yay, pretty flowers to distract from uncomfortable historical atrocities! Whee!

At the risk of sounding like a caveman, the Highland women did as all women should, staying home and tending to the wee little ones, coos ("cows") and meager crops of kale, grain and root vegetables (neeps and tatties), while the men were out doing manly stuff, like hunting and frequenting strip joints. In addition to the abundance of deer in the area, they also dined on smaller animals, such as otter, hare, rabbit and beaver - the only prey conveniently found in both nature and those aforementioned gentlemen's clubs.

A straight-up pimp named Hamish, the Hugh Hefner of Highland coos, who has been used as a stud for 13 years.

Since the terrain was so unforgiving, the Highland dudes needed to protect themselves while hunting in the country on sheep-herding expeditions. Their traditional garb consisted of 9 yards of hard, rough fabric that they wrapped around their mid-sections, which was then attached with a belt. The remaining bit at the end was looped over the shoulder and secured with a brooch. The pleats and folds created by all those layers were perfect pockets and insulation on cold Highland nights without the missus.

This clunky garment was usually pre-treated with animal fat for waterproofing and a good splashing of piss, which combined with the lanolin in the wool and then covered in grass, bracken and dirt to create a perfect camouflage against hillside bandits. But it was more than a pee-soaked toga. The multipurpose cloth could also be used as a tent, sleeping bag, windbreaker and raincoat, used to cover, blanket and wrap. Ingenious. I really wish they sold these things at North Face (or at least some knock-offs at the fake market).

So now that we know how they kept warm while braving the elements, how did they eat? As any mountain climber knows, it's a bitch to carry a lot of food when out on a hike. The Highlanders were no less practical. In those makeshift cloth pockets, they would store bits of cold meat and oatmeal. The cured jerky could have been enjoyed at any time, but what about that uncooked crap?

Well, rising bright and early in the highland sun, Mr. Highlander would stroll down to the nearest body of water - usually a small mountain brook - and soak a handful of oats in the icy stream. But how can you chew, much less digest, a pile of coarse oats soaked in freezing water? By cooking it, silly. But how can you do that without a pot of boiling water or microwave? This is where the true genius reveals itself, for the highlanders used body heat. And what is the warmest place on your body? No, it's not your butt crack (it was my first guess too). It's your armpit.

As you consider just how funk nasty that is, let's continue. The cold oat pie would be packed up into Mr. Highlander's pits and left to slow bake for a bit, softening those oats enough for him to eat. So not only did that oatcake receive an unnecessary garnish of pit hair, it probably didn't smell pretty either. Steve warned us to beware of souvenir shop oatcake tins advertising authentic preparation methods, lest any of us unnecessarily consume those B.O. biscuits.

Those Highland idiots should have just jumped to keep warm. Works for me.

In addition to worrying about the daily dose of oatcake and murderous, sheep-shagging bandits, the Highlanders also had to consider the nasties lurking in the bogs. These lovely creatures liked to steal naughty children and do horrible, horrible things to them. Parents would tell the tales of these bogles in order to keep their children behaved or prevent them from peeing the bed, which I feel is a little counterproductive for inspiring continence in a petrified child. Sound familiar? It probably should, if you were lucky enough to have cruel sadistic parents who liked to tell terrifying bedtime stories to their poor, defenseless children - who would subsequently remain hidden under their covers - just so mom and dad could hurry off and do the nasty: this is where the bogeyman was born.

If snot-covered hobgoblins aren't your cup of spooky tea, there are plenty of other monstrosities lurking about the hills in the Highlands. Approaching the northernmost destination of our tour, we were about to have the chance to glimpse the most famous of them all.

Jump for Joy at Glencoe!

III. In Search Of The Water Horse

In the northern midsection of the Scottish Highlands, there lies an enormous lake. 23 miles long, 1 mile wide and over 700 feet deep, containing more liquid in its hungry belly than all of the natural water formations in England and Wales combined. Supposedly so voluminous it can also contain every single human on Earth. Three times over (according to Steve, anyway). The great Loch Ness, Mecca of our little pilgrimage, home and namesake of that famous beastie I'd waited a better part of my life to have the chance to see with my own squinty eyes.

Behold Her Beauty!!!!!

Ever since I was a wee lad, I've been cripplingly fascinated with dinosaurs. More fittingly, I've been madly in love with them. Even before I sold my young soul to music, those terrible lizards occupied the largest parts of my heart and mind. Still do, to a certain extent. While other kids were off dreaming about becoming gang lords, coked-out Wall Street yuppies, or Ferris Bueller (this was the 80s, after all), I wanted to be a paleontologist. Please note, all you comedians ready with a tired Friends joke: this was also before some asshole named Ross Gellar totally stained the name of this honourable profession. So it should come as no surprise to hear of my obvious interest in the most famous cryptozoological beastie in the world, the Loch Ness Monster.

Don't worry! I know it looks real, but it's actually a cleverly crafted artistic interpretation

The Loch Ness Monster - here on out "Nessie", for the sake of frugal typing - is the closest we'll ever come to a real dinosaur. Crocodiles, Jurassic Park and John McCain be damned, the possibility of an actual living dinosaur (a plesiosaur, to be precise) at the bottom of a gigantic lake is just too overwhelmingly awesome to process. But alas, as scant physical "evidence" and my high school Freshman year term paper have proven thus far, Nessie remains an unsolved mystery. I knew that there was absolutely no chance of being the first person to find conclusive evidence of her existence, but a boy can dream, right?

Monster Hunters, This Way

So why is it so damn hard to catch Nessie? Well, if I knew the answer, I'd be a rich man. Whether you are a believer or not, it's impossible to present a definitive argument without so much as an ounce of proof. The size of the loch can be beneficial or annoyingly daunting, depending on which side you're on. Since it contains a deep underwater valley dotted with tunneling caves, there could be anything down there, monster or not. The gamut of cockamamie ideas has ranged from the ridiculous (a Nazi submarine) to the retarded (an elephant).

On top of that, the lake water is so muddied with peat and particles, visibility is reduced to such a degree that you might as well go searching for Nessie blindfolded. This makes radar and sonar devices pretty useful for monster hunters, except for the fact that the non-monster creatures swimming around in there tend to create troublesome instances of mistaken identity. Maybe it's that pesky elephant.

Monster or no monster, Loch Ness is a jaw-dropping vista in its own right. Cut into the face of a lushly verdant valley by Ice Age glaciers, this cigar-shaped lake snakes its way from the Highland capital of Inverness down to a southern tip at Fort Augustus, where it gives way to the Caledonian Canal system and connects with Loch Oich (say "Loch Oich" a few times if you're having issues expectorating). The loch is home to an assortment of critters, such as otter, trout, sturgeon and salmon, all said to be possible explanations of Nessie by naysayers, skeptics and joykills. This idea is utterly ridiculous to me, because the last time I saw an otter, it wasn't the size of a school bus.

Fort Augustus is on the far left

Due to the sheer size of this massive body of water, it would have taken hours to reach the northeastern side. Thus our tour cleverly brought us to the southernmost tip of the loch: Fort Augustus. While the actual Loch Ness Monster epicenter is in Drumnadrochit, I was thrilled just to be close enough to the water to potentially get eaten by Nessie. It's doubtful we'd have had a better chance to see Nessie at that overcrowded tourist trap anyhow. She'd probably prefer the peaceful Fort Augustus environs for the same reason we did: as an escape from the busloads of novice Nessie hunters up north.

Picturesque Fort Augustus' second biggest claim to fame is the canal cutting through its center, which was revolutionary when it was conceived, but took so long to properly complete that it was rendered useless. Nowadays, the Caledonian Canal serves as an attractive tourist distraction, perfect for picnics and watching the sailboats climb by. Turning bridges at both mouths of the canal inconvenience traffic like a railroad crossing, but seeing the road twist in a circle to let a boat pass through is interesting to witness once in your life.

The Caledonian Canal

The River Flows On

From the serene banks of Ness, we watched the loch ripple and enjoyed our deep-fried lunches in the embrace of near-complete silence. The warm rays of the sun protected us from the chilly lakeside breeze while we sat in peace and quiet. Even the noise emanating from a pair of typically obnoxious American girls polluting the lake with their meat-flap frolicking couldn't ruin the mood.

I'm At Loch Ness!!!!!!!

So Neil, nauseatingly sub-par poetic musings aside, did you actually see the damn monster? Well, impatient reader, I'll let you judge for yourself:

You knew this was coming...
Swear on my left nut, it's really Nessie! Or at least her blurry albino cousin.

I'm not quite sure if the Loch Ness society will accept the above groundbreaking photographic evidence of Nessie's existence, but I'm comforted by the fact that I got what I came for. Conclusive proof or not, in that short bit of time we spent at Loch Ness, the satisfaction and joyous wonder I felt in the pit of my stomach was ineffable. It was a perfect slice of time that I'll never forget.

Just chillin.

Sadly, we couldn't abandon our lives beyond the Loch and settle along the lakeside, so we hopped back on the bus and continued along highway A82 for the long drive back to Edinburgh. In the span of a day, even though we were trapped in a bus, we received a swift education in the darker side of Scottish history, passed the natural and geological wonders of the Highlands, had some nips of whisky along the way, and set foot upon the mythical banks of Loch Ness. Whether you have a day or a week, a jaunt into the Highlands is really something you must try at least once in your life.

Bye Bye, Scotland!

Coming up next, the finale your eyes and attention-spans have been waiting for: Episode X - All Good Things Come To London...

Quality Time With Our Former Colonial Overlords (Or, Neil's Trip To The UK)

Episode 4: Let's Make A Movie

I. Off To Hogwarts

Maybe music and shopping aren't your thing. While I pity your meaningless existence, I understand your condition. I hear eating is pretty popular, but some people just aren't into it. To each his own. Maybe movies get you off. They have the same effect on me, too. Which is why the UK is an absolute treasure trove for movie fans that can't make pilgrimages to New York City, Hollywood or New Zealand. Around every corner, just about, there is something to be spotted. A church. A skyscraper. A street. A cafe. An entire landscape. All seen in one your "favorite movies of all time," just waiting for you to take a well-timed picture of it.

First off, let's use a handy pop culture analogy from fanboy movie land:

New Zealand : Lord of the Rings :: The UK : ?

Give up? Harry Potter, bitches! Depending on where you venture in Britain, you're liked to wander onto Diagon Alley (Leadenhall Market), into Hogwarts (Alnwick Castle, Northumberland) or even the Hogwarts dining room (Christ Church, Oxford University). But whilst in London, I only had time for one special, out-of-the-way visit. To Platform 9¾.

Your ticket to Hogwarts

As you all (should) know, Platform 9.75 (easier on the eyes) is where Hogwarts students wave bye-bye to mum and dad, run headlong into a brick wall, and emerge, unscathed, on the other side to board the Hogwarts Express for another deadly school year. Fun! I want to fight evil with magic too!

All the way to the left of the station, near Platforms 9, 10 & 11.
Keep walking straight until you pass under that walkway in the background...

Here we are at the walkway.
Keep going and bang a left up where that dude in the blue shirt is walking.
Voila~

Located at King's Cross St. Pancras station (take the Piccadilly Line), the platform is tucked in an isolated area past the real Platform 9, in the left-most nook of the station. The real shot from the movie is actually located near Platform 4, at the center of the cavernous station, which is more impressive than something tucked away near a construction site. Just follow the groups of American tourists giggling with anticipation and, if there are none around, ask one of the staff, who are already trained with a stock response for stupid tourists like you. Err, us. Moving on.

Her shirt says "I got wait listed at Hogwarts." Cute if it weren't so nerdily obnoxious.

Real Hogwarts Geniuses: Neil, Kathleen, Sandra

There's nothing particularly mind-blowing about 9.75, save for the fact that it is very cool of London Public Transport to provide this neat little tidbit for fans around the world. After you snap the required shot of you, holding on to the luggage cart that is cleverly already halfway through the wall, you can be proud to know that you are a most superior HP fan to those lesser dedicated riff-raff friends of yours that aren't cool enough to fly all the way to London solely for a photo-op with a fabricated piece of pop culture. HA! Fools! ....

I bet no one at Hogwarts has ever JUMPED through. Lightweights. I totally look like I'm flying. What a badass.

For a full list of places for HP fanboys/girls to visit, check out this link and this link.

Although London is teeming with places that you've seen in movies, we didn't have enough time to waste running about town just for posed shots at Notting Hill, MI6, or Austin Powers' groovy shag loft, baby. Cultural immersion in free museums trump all. We had planned to visit Fleet Street, home to human-flesh-pasty-making devil, Sweeney Todd, but alas did not have a spare moment for a haircut. If you're interested, hop off the Circle/District line at Blackfriars and walk to 186 Fleet Street. If you see Johnny Depp, tell him I love him.

Border-hopping north and into Scotland, there's also a bevy of movie crap to wrap your head around. Let's stay on the Harry Potter track for a few minutes more, shall we?

After visiting Scotland, in all its wonder and magic, I felt very strongly that this must be the place that inspired a lot of the HP universe. It all fits: there's a real St. Mungo and a Scottish surname, Crookshanks (here I am thinking they were ridiculous made-up names); the imposing and slightly mystical architecture of Edinburgh screams Hogwarts; and the Highlands, which I could have sworn I saw in one of the movies (Azkaban, natch). To name just but a few examples that have been swirling in my brain. Well, it turns out to be true! Bless JK Rowling for being on the same page as me.

In addition to passing the Highland bridge used to shoot the scenes with the Hogwarts Express chugging to school, we also had the opportunity to visit a more real-world muggle locale: a cafe in Edinburgh called The Elephant House, where old Jo wrote the first book.

The Elephant House (in case you couldn't see the sign)

Milking it for everything they can (Sorry, Butterbeer not for sale to minors)

This modest cafe on George IV Bridge off the Royal Mile, a mere 10 minute walk from Edinburgh Castle, is packed with locals enjoying the Free Trade coffee and "strombolis" (basically, an overpriced panini) and overzealous HP fans alike. On a ratty old sofa in this sun-soaked shop, Rowling wrote what would become The Philosopher's/Sorcerer's Stone. Certainly not worth the exorbitant prices, but hey, when a die-hard Harry Potter fanatic is in Edinburgh...

Whoa Nelly!
[Insert joke about actual elephants in Elephant House here]

II. Highlanders

Waving goodbye to Harry Potter, we delve into more adult fare. If magic isn't your thing, maybe heroin is. So you Trainspotting fans will be pleased to know that Edinburgh is where your favorite junkies stole shit (on Princes Street!), looked at locomotives and got high as kites in the 90s classic.

Gets better every time you watch it

If dramatic era pieces are more your bag, then we must travel further north to the wilderness of the Highlands. Without directing obvious nods to the Highlander series (starring French tool, Christopher Lambert, a.k.a. your friendly neighborhood thunder god, Raiden) or any potential Loch Ness related fiddle-faddle (e.g. The Water Horse), there are two huge films with deep roots (and controversies) based in the Highlands: Rob Roy and Braveheart.

Pretty much everyone has seen Braveheart, so I'll spare you the background information and sappy quotes. However, I admit that I haven't seen Rob Roy, so chances are you haven't either. Fortunately I got a crash-course summary from our tour bus driver (no puns intended, pei-pei-pei!). So what's the fuss about? First, let's start with the facts:

Braveheart is a Hollywood story based on the real life William Wallace, who lived in an area called Stirling, located West of Edinburgh. He lived near the Highlands and was executed by the bad bad British (more precisely: strangled, eviscerated, castrated, beheaded, and then, to be sure, drawn and quartered for good measure).

Rob Roy is a Hollywood story based on the real life...Rob Roy (MacGregor). He lived further Northwest in the actual Highlands, somewhere south of Glencoe, and most certainly did not play Obi-Wan Kenobi in Star Wars Episode 1.

Those are the facts. Pretty slim, right? How could you weave two 2+ hour movies from that? With the magic of Hollywood! Digging into the memory banks, try and remember all you can about those movies and rejoin me below for some interesting inconsistencies.


William Wallace (said "Braveheart") was 6'7". *Pause* A fucking beast of a man who wielded a sword 5'7" long. *Second pause* That is HUGE. In a delicious bit of number play, Mel Gibson is also 5'7" (or 5'10", depending on the source). Imagine Wallace waving around Mel like a little toy. "How dare you desecrate my name. Blaaargh! I'm Will.i.am Wallace!" Hilarity ensues.

Wallace was also not quite as wild and mangy as in the films, but rather a moderately respected landowner. Shocking to believe Mel Gibson would fabricate historical truths for box office gain (zing!). So please don't cry when I tell you that the part in the movie where the Highlanders flip up their kilts and moon the Brits didn't happen. No one is that stupid to expose their quivering nutsacks to a full line of English musket power (and they hadn't even invented that style of kilt yet). And to further ruffle your feathers, that whole "Freedom" speech actually belongs to Robert the Bruce. Suck it, Braveheart nerds.

A Two-Handed (duh) Sword, Used By Badasses Like William Wallace

Rob Roy, on the other end of the aesthetic spectrum, was a red-headed freakshow of a man. Apparently, his arms were so long that his hands reached his knees. And dude was only 5'4" tall. Kind of like Gollum. I don't know when you last took a peek at Irishman (gasp!) Liam Neeson, but he's a pretty dashing gentleman. And 6'4" tall with brown hair. Hollywood, Hollywood, Hollywood...

According to local history, when Roy was brought to face the English king for his Robin Hood-esque thievery crimes (mainly "reiving", e.g. stealing, to pay off late debts), the king was so taken off guard by Roy's gnome-like appearance that he pardoned the little guy in a fit of uncontrollable laughter. That happened to me once in college... girls can be so cruel...

Enough about those guys. I'm starting to get irritated with all the romanticised heroism. Let's get into a real classic.

On the way out of the Highlands and back to Edinburgh, we passed a ramshackle castle in the distant mist, which starred in one of the greatest films of all time: Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Doune Castle in itself is nothing too special. However, as a pilgrimage point for Grail buffs, it has since hopped aboard the Python express and welcomes fans without insult. One year, according to our tour guide, local merchants were surprised to sell out entire supplies of imported coconuts, all mysteriously headed to Doune. I suppose the fans needed transportation to get around the castle grounds, eh?

III. Trail To The Grail

First, we dabbled in the fantasy world with boy wizards and jailbait witches. Then we touched upon Hollywood deception in the Highland hills. Finally, we were reacquainted with the best Grail-referencing film ever (sorry, Indy). So why don't we combine fantasy, deception and grails into one convenient finale?

If you've been an active member of any culture in the past few years, you've no doubt either fallen in love or grown to hate Dan Brown and his arsenal of fairy tales. I admit, I am a Dan Brown apologist. I find his stories highly entertaining and devoured all of them within a fortnight one summer in 2003. Yet I am aware of the controversy and overall bad taste that he leaves in the mouths of discerning literature buffs and overzealous Christian right-wingers alike. So where is this all headed? Well, if you remember the movie, The Da Vinci Code, and the far-superior book it was based on, you know that all points lead to Scotland, at a delightfully magical church called Rosslyn Chapel.

The site was a highly anticipated part of our journey. So as we boarded Lothian Bus 15 from Prince Street, I was giddy to finally be starting our pilgrimage south. A swift 30 minutes later, we arrived in Roslin.

Roslin, near Rosewell, not Roswell

Rosslyn Chapel, a Scottish Episcopalian church located in the once-peaceful village of Roslin, is a gem on its own. Even without the grudgingly-received attention thrust upon it by Mr. Brown's musings, it is a wondrous and borderline mythical site that stands on its own as a marvel of religious architecture, design and creativity.

Stock photo of Rosslyn, before the scaffolding ruined the view (to the far left, you can see the unfinished wall that was supposed to be the transept of a huge cathedral) (from Wiki)

Without busting too much of a love load over Rosslyn, I'll share with you some highlights and try to clear the air about this place. If you don't care for religious symbolism or mythic tales, you can save some time and stop reading here; I'll be wrapping this entry up with this subject, but I do go on about it for quite some time... I've already pushed audience attention-span limits with the length of this entry. Just saying. Moving on.

I had planned the Rosslyn visit as one of the must-see highlights of the trip, more important and meaningful to me than anything in Edinburgh (sorry). Despite popular belief, I have a deep respect for the religious and have my own private well of deep faith. And I especially love when supernatural, mythical, or otherwise fantastical elements are added to the mix; it makes all the boring dogma seem worthwhile. Thus, the need to see Rosslyn with my own eyes.

Housed in the choir portion of what was to be an entire Roman Catholic cathedral, Rosslyn Chapel (a.k.a. The Collegiate Church of Saint Matthew) is an ornately decorated house of worship, painstakingly detailed to "illustrate" a wealth of tales on every surface of its porous sandstone. This is perhaps why it is sometimes referred to as a Bible in rock, a storybook in stone and glass.

Unfortunately, no photography was allowed inside, so the only shots I got were of the exterior (the chapel is covered with scaffolding, but the silver lining is that you can actually climb up the catwalk and see the roof details). Check out this video tour for a more in-depth look at this beautiful place (or this slideshow, if you prefer to avoid a narrated guide).

The interior of Rosslyn's choir (from Wiki)

See the map on the right. I tried to make it clear, orienting the location of the building in relation to what would have been a whole cathedral. Think of this as the top part of a cross. That unsightly scaffolding is actually protecting the crumbling structure from rain damage.

The original, lustrous pink sandstone

Unfortunately, whatever was alluded to in The Da Vinci Code is only loosely based on reality. Sorry, but "Rosslyn" does not mean "Rose Line"; it's actually "waterfall over the rock". And Jesus and Mary Magdeline's family tree ain't in the crypt either. It is indeed related to the Knights Templar and might be vaguely connected to the Masons, but the truths and debated fictions that existed here before Dan Brown's book are, in my opinion, far more interesting and feasible. To wit:

-Dedicated to Saint Matthew, the chapel was meticulously built to honour this saint in a most astounding way. In the central rose window (the stained glass above the choir), there is a tiny triangle of red glass (see photo below). Only on one day out of the year does the sun shine directly through it: the first day of the Autumnal Equinox or, St. Matthew's Day. Genius.

Rose window detail

-Decorated with an abundance of Christian-based carvings, the chapel is also unique in its references to non-Christian motifs. Most famous are the carvings of Green Men. These pagan symbols of fertility are ugly little beasties: tiny cherubic faces with vines and shrubbery spewing from their orifices. They make Pan look like a cuddly sheep.

Green Man: ugly little fucker (from Wiki)

-Most people believe Columbus "discovered" America. Not here. In addition to the aforementioned Green Men, there are also a curious amount of vegetation motifs depicting plants that were not indiginous to Europe at the time of carving. These plants are North American (maize/corn, aloe) and have led many to believe that one of the Knights Templar associated with Rosslyn may have traveled to America long before Columbus. The coolest bit about it? Supposedly, this knight landed very close to home. My home.

See the corn in the inner lining of the window arch? Mysteeeeriouuuus (from Wiki)

After a mission from Scotland to Nova Scotia hit bad weather, a group led by Henry Sinclair found shelter in Massachusetts. This knight Sinclair, an ancestor to the current keepers of Rosslyn Chapel, eventually died and was buried in a little town called Westford. Baaaadaaaass. For those of you back home, he can be found on Prospect Hill (near the Westford Center rotary, off 495, on Depot Street), the grave marked by a carved relief tombstone. Whether it's truly him or not, this random reference to my current US home was something unexpected and, I admit, pretty cool.

Driven past this millions of times without knowing what it was... (from Flickr)

-On a carving of Moses (Old Testament guy, not my Dad) near the Southern entrance, there are two curious horns protruding from his head. The Rosslyn artists did not mean to imply he was Satan. Rather, this was due to a mistranslation of the word "horn" in Hebrew, which was supposed to be translated as "light" or "aura." As in, "a light/aura rose from Moses' head." Let that be a lesson to lazy freelance Bible translators out there.

Horny Moses (from Flickr)

-Near the far eastern end of the chapel, in the Lady Choir, there are little trapezoidal protrusions that jut out along the interiors of the column arches. On each square is a unique design that was said to be connected to a musical note. So, a pair of curious guys decided to try and decipher the designs using Chladni patterns. What resulted was a full piece of music called the Rosslyn Motet. Please do check out this amazing video charting the musical cipher. I find it overwhelmingly fascinating.

-The most famous pieces of the chapel are arguably the Master Mason pillar and the Apprentice pillar. The Master Mason has a fine and stately design, understated and elegant in its relative simplicity. The Apprentice pillar, on the other hand, is a badass of a shaft that totally beats the knickers off the Master Mason. This is perhaps why said mason actually killed his apprentice with a mallet-blow for outshining him. In a glorious twist of ingenuity, the mason and apprentice have been immortalized in carvings on the walls of the chapel: the apprentice in one corner near the rear of the chapel and the master in the opposite corner, his gaze centered directly on the Apprentice pillar for all eternity, awesome karmic punishment for his sin of envy.

Gonna Get Someone Killed:
Gorgeous top of the Apprentice Pillar (from Wiki)

-Finally (you still awake?), the Grail marker. Located at a central point on the vaulted ceiling, this diamond shaped stone points directly down into the heart of the chapel, deep below the floor, to a mysterious unopened crypt below.

X Marks The Spot:
The Keystone (from Wiki)

According to legend, this crypt is home to a treasure beyond comprehension. Now, before you get all excited, grab your pick-axe and go Lara Croft on me, take pause. The Grail is probably not buried here. Nor is Jesus' mummified head (yikes! seriously people!?!), the fallopian tubes of Mother Mary, or John the Baptist's favourite Care Bear. A local crazy tried to smash open parts of the chapel in an attempt at real scientific discovery years back (got nothing but time in the pokey), so to avoid any further vandalism by nutjobs, the Rosslyn people had everything x-rayed. Nothing was found hidden above ground, but they did find a massive space below. So massive that it is as deep and cavernous as the entire above ground portion of the chapel, like a subterranean mirror image.

And there are definitely things down there, but what? No entrance can be found and they most certainly will not allow any destruction of the foundation, so you can be left to speculate. It is "supposed" to contain the Knight's Templars skeletons, their treasures, like the Ark of the Covenant, the treasure from King Solomon's Temple, and the rocks from the Temple of Doom (kidding...), the Holy Rood (or "holy wood," a piece of the crucifix that did in our Lord and Saviour), and/or that pesky Holy Grail. Believe what you will, but the real-life stories in stone are enough to feed the imagination and satisfy your inner faith-based adventurer without too much fictional interruption.

I have many more stories, if you're interested. But I really need a rest at this point. Can't believe you made it this far. Since you can't take my blabber any further (I totally need a pee break right now), do your own supplemental reading or catch up with a bag of popcorn and any one of the movies that I've mentioned above. A movie marathon on film, instead of your loquacious buddy's blog.