“And by the way, it’s not Edin-burg.” Yaro and I exchange looks. The hostel owner, a Reese Witherspoon lookalike from New Zealand, isn’t making any sense. “Edin-Burough?” Yaro asks inquisitively.

She smiles from behind the counter. “They always get it wrong.” I’m not sure if she’s talking to us or herself. “Then, how do you say it?” I wonder out loud. “Edin-b-r-r-r-uh,” she replies with a red carpet tongue roll. “The Scottish are a bit demented that way.”

“I woulda never guessed that’s how you say it.”  

“Just let your tongue flutter,” she instructs, starting to pronounce the rapid fire “er,” which sound like a plastic bag flapping in the wind. I try it myself, seeing if I can pronounce Edinburgh correctly, but my mouth fails me, and it comes out “Edin-bderthuh.” Well, I figure, might as well abandon ship with that one.

She shows us to our room, moaning lightheartedly along the way about the doom and gloom of Scottish weather and how much she misses the sun-bleached sand of wherever it was she vacationed to. Our place is situated down a steep alleyway, just around the corner. She leaves us be, but not before breaking out a map and pen and circling all the cool little hotspots around town that we should check out—some of them pretty obvious choices that we already had planned, but also a lot of niche, “alternative” places found only within the cracks of narrow one-way streets.

Before I left for Scotland, a flat mate of mine told me that Edinburgh is a bit “posh,” and that Glasgow was the more happening place. “There’s a great music scene in Glasgow,” my flat mate had mentioned. “All the cool indie bands seem to come from there.” But from Witherspoon’s map markings, Edinburgh seems to be brimming with subculture. At least enough fruit-and-nuts type places for our two-night stay.

Okay. So, we drop our stuff off in our broom closet of a room and set out for some breakfast, which we find in the café right next door. The “fuck it, whatever” attitude of this trip is already understood between us; we’re going to walk around the streets at weird hours, willingly get ourselves lost, wing the bulk of our stay and see what wanders around this bay city. We get some fried food and lager that has a long-lasting and pleasant aftertaste, then head out.

We only have some vague ideas of what we want to do, so we head in the direction of the sea without much of a point B in mind.

A 15-minute walk down some windy streets and through the underground train station brings us to the Princess Street Gardens, where the trees sag gloomily and the grass slopes down toward the train tracks. Beside Princess Street stands the Scott Monument, cloaked in omni-shadow against the single-toned grey sky. We pay five pounds to enter it, getting confused with the coin sizes and which coins hold what value, trying to trade cash to get the right amounts.

The staircases are thin and winding, shrinking as they spiral upward. The wind bashes us to pieces, sucking the breath out of us as we ascend. The final flight to the top shrinks to such a width that I have to waddle sideways with my shoulders scrunched to make it through. From the top, I see the Neoclassical spread of gridirons, little ant people moving below, the sea to the North, a developed inlet curling around it, Old Town in the other direction, hills and monuments and blotches of green parks.

Everything is the color of earth and ash. But that’s the beauty, isn’t it? The raw quality of original civilization, before chain stores and combustion engines. When art was a blue-collar trade and guilds fostered the needs of the people. I can point at many of the places where the day will see us—the streets we’ll walk and the hills we’ll climb. Excitement arises. With the hellish wind, it’s all sensory. There are few moments when life matches your own awareness, when both you and the moment sync and you’re able to take things in, presently in one dimension. Right now is one of those moments. I look forward to what’s to come.

We descend, being granted relief from the wind when we reach ground level, then head off once more toward the bay. We figure now’s the time to hit up the Scottish National Portrait Gallery, seeing as it’s in the area. Inside, I’m told to take off my backpack, so I don’t turn around and accidentally knock over one of the dozens of immaculately carved marble statues; those scientists, aristocrats, priests and war heroes, blank-eyed and rock-hard, hitting the floor and shattering into the dust from which they arose.

There is a wide mix of art in here. Classical, modern—Gawd, it’s like everything and nothing at the same time, an expression of the sublime—socially-realist photography of slum kids in sepia tones, glass optical illusions, and even just pictures of celebrities sitting on concrete slabs—James McAvoy, what are you doing here?  I’m thinking of that Claude Debussy song that I don’t remember the name of because it seems to fit.

The most striking piece in the entire building is the wall design in the center atrium of a medieval beach assault with archers, heads wrapped in bloody bandages and arms cocked back, arrows charged for release, facing down shielded men on galleys, trying to cover themselves from the arrows raining down upon them. And way in the distance, over the lulls of the hills, are riders charging into the thick of it with jousts, crashing, lunging, teeth barred, smoke rising, knives in backs, maces wielded and a willingness to die. It’s an amazing two-piece artwork. I stare at it for a long time. Yaro has to usher me downstairs when he’s done looking at everything.

Where now? We check the map, thinking about what we saw from atop the Scott Monument. We decide on the Edinburgh Castle and start trekking South toward the train station; then, after realizing we took the wrong street, we shimmy down a steep hill in the correct direction toward the looming landmark.

Cowgate—or is it West Port?—seems to be a hive of activity when we reach the street. Bagpipes are ringing out indistinctly as a Rosso Corsa-colored Ferrari 488 blazes down away from the castle, rounding a corner and disappearing amidst a sea of watchful eyes. We take note to explore this street once we’ve milked the castle for all its sights and history.

We march up the hill toward the castle, pay our 20-something euros to get in, and start eyeing up the place. The day is so drab and soggy that the colors of the bricks and cobblestones look like they’re melting off. I feel this weight, this feeling of power of the unknown as I look around the castle, seeing all the cannons aimed toward the park, the churches and the bay, peaking into the old cellars and jail cells.

What is this feeling? The cognization of context? Of where things were and ought to be, how things played out and the price paid for those things?  Maybe. Hard to say.

History’s a linear path and I’m looking back upon it. Perhaps it’s the harsh wind that seems to be getting worse and worse, driving Yaro and me into damp buildings that adds to the harsh effect of past existence. No heating when you’re shackled in a bail of hay, bub. This isn’t your 21st-century castle. We’re forced to endure the elements while holed up in those empty cellars, where the cold so easily seeps in. The wind has sucked all the moisture out of my body, so I mentally map out the different buildings in and around the castle where a water fountain might be.

We think the wind might die down pretty soon, but it so obviously doesn’t, so we just brave it and fast-walk toward the military museum portion of the castle. No dice on there being a water fountain or even a bathroom for that matter, but I’m in no rush to keep looking once we’re inside because the exhibits are so interesting.

An inactive anti-aircraft gun sits in the lobby, and I take a whole minute scouring the artillery piece, trying to make sense of the nitty-gritty components of it. And miniature detailed models of battleships, oh how I love thee. Those sit behind glass casings, along with old propaganda pieces, gas masks, and guns ranging from those of the flintlock era to the FAMAS and plastic G3s used by the UN.

There are a few floors to this building, so we spend around an hour gleaming all the history we can from these displays, then head back out. We head down toward the exit, stopping along the way at one of the gift shops where I’m able to get some water, and at an alcoholic dispensary where we get free samples of whiskey to taste—enough of a taste to convince Yaro to buy a 40 euro bottle that he intends to bring back on the flight. We soak in one last look over the city, then start walking toward Cowgate/West Point.

There’s actually not a whole lot going on down here. That bagpipe player stands beside a church, or some Revival-style building, before a modest gathering of cargo shorts-wearing, middle-aged guys and their stroller-pushing wives. Eclectic, crunchy shops line the street, catering to the Schwinn bicycle riders passing to and fro. It appears to be that  kind of street. There isn’t anything of much interest besides this one hole-in-the-wall store where Yaro buys a stuffed animal souvenir to bring back for his little sister.

We still have a bit of energy for hiking left in us, so we embark for Calton Hill, passing by rainbow street art and a swath of gay bars along the way. There’s a bleating mist, like pine needles pricking my skin, and the wind just isn’t letting up. The Hill seems misplaced in the middle of this bustling commercial district—a raised piece of land stuck out of the elevation of the rest of the buildings, almost like it’s been artificially erected.

But the view from the top, where the column stands rogue and the tower is unreachable, seems like the most natural thing in the world. What’s the word? Proper? Kosher, in the non-Jewish sense?

I don’t know, but all these views-from-high-places feel so right  to me, even when the view is that of a city made of stone and not the natural wilderness. We linger around the top of the Hill for a while, taking pictures of the columns and walking around the massive mud puddles, which are as wide as the Serengeti.

The wind and the walking have broken us down to exhaustion, so we take a seat on a bench facing Holyrood Park, a mass of bald-faced hills and 90-degree slags way over yonder, dividing the urban core of Old Town and the residential confederation against all the noise. Yaro doesn’t say anything and just points. We both know what the plan is for tomorrow.

Hunger’s struck. Yaro breaks out the map again and scans it for a place to eat near our hostel. There’s a triple circled dot on the map that marks “Wings” in the legend. Tearing meat from the bone seems like a perfect end to the day, so we head off, getting lost, then back on track, then lost again because the streets don’t seem to have any signs distinguishing them by name. But we find it as the clouds are beginning to part for the setting sun. A back-back-back alley shack with a little tripod sign in the front that’s still standing from the wind. Yes, “Wings.”

We walk in and are greeted by standees of Rick and Morty as well as a waitress in her late 20s with shoulder length hair the color of a gasoline spill. She leads us to a backroom where a few hipster couples appear to be on first dates, the women with similarly dyed hair as the waitress, and the men with beards to cover both their weak jaws and low self-esteem.

Neon signs everywhere, that whole unironically ironic sex shop atmosphere. This environment would usually be grating to my senses, but I’m too hungry for that.

Ordering goes quickly, each of us getting half a dozen wings. For drinks, I get a simple lager, and Yaro gets an Oreo milkshake spiked with rum. We’re also given a pitcher of complimentary water that we (mostly I) gulp down generously. We’re seated next to a wall that is an amalgam of pop culture characters that we pass the time pointing out to each other: Beavis and Butt-Head, countless old Nickelodeon cartoons, enemies from Bioshock and Silent Hill, Judge Dredd,  and that robot from Short Circuit (1986). Any property that would get Gen Xers weeping in nostalgia is represented on this wall.

We get our food, which disappears into our gullets too quickly. Yaro allows me a taste of his shake and it ends up being as weirdly delicious as it sounds. You can’t get drunk off it, but you can probably develop a hearty case of atherosclerosis from it if you decided to have a few of them. We hit it back to our room where we catch some early sleep. We intend to start the day off before full sun rise in order to leave plenty of time for Holyrood Park.

We both lie in our respective beds and take notes of today’s events. The indoors is noticeably calm and quiet when compared to the ravenous winds outside that whistle at medium pitch without taking a breath. That night, I dream that I’m a single-digit age again, standing in my backyard, rake in hand, in front of a half-formed pile of leaves. The air is still and comfortably humid. Warm. Slow. Even flow. No perception of time passing. Just my backyard, a state of being. I’m aware this is a dream while I’m in it, and that it might be a statement of the harsh weather from the day prior.

What message this dream is trying to convey, however, I have no idea. But it’s comfortable while it lasts. I get to doing the only thing there is to do in this dream. I start raking.

Our day begins at the café next door. Blueberry pancakes, black coffee and a side of berries. Light bill, fine service. I mentally rush past our eating experience because I’m so excited for Holyrood. We hit the bricks when it’s still twilight and set off for the hills, bone-cold in the chill of the morning and still reeling from our early rise.

It takes about an hour or so to reach the park. The familiar sight of dead moss wrapped in black coils greet us at the entrance to the path leading up. There’s a good number of hikers already on the move this time in the morning. The rise seems gradual, but I’ve been tricked into underestimating hikes before, so I push all my chips forward and ready myself for a good beating on our way to the top.

And the wind. It’s already in overdrive at street level, so going on up…Oh boy.

So it begins. We take the longer path going around some mounded hills, with good views of some small lochs and the vast spread of the city. The path started out marshy and wet from some late-night rain, but as we keep ascending, passing the ruins of St. Anthony’s Chapel, the wind gets stronger and the land becomes more dried out. The hills are either black from the moss coils or buff colored from the wind-scorched grass, which is stuck in a bent-over position, pushed down by the wind. It feels almost like the Great Plains, the open prairie, the Flint Hills of Kansas. Except it just keeps going up and up and up.

Flash gusts of wind split our breathing apart and render us suffocated for long stints at a time, forcing us to hug our hoods to our skulls and turn our backs to the wind. I jump straight up and land several feet from where I left the ground, sending Yaro into a laughing fit. I can move only in two-minute intervals until I drop to my knees from exhaustion and have to recover my strength.

On a temperate day, this hike might not be so arduous, but today, when the wind is the worst non-blizzard wind I’ve ever experienced, it’s like pushing a boulder up the hill, under the weight of the world—the whole Sisyphus thing and all that jazz.

The wind beats Hell, burning our skin and stealing our breath away. Death, is that you? Is this what drowning feels like? Is this outer space? Why can’t I breathe?  We turn our sights toward Arthur’s Seat, the highest point in the park, just as my eyes feel like they’re about to explode.

At the top, we take our pictures, do our little poses, then start heading down to the Salisbury Crags, which are so slightly angled toward the sky and look out over the suburbs and into the countryside. We take odd routes through glens and thin paths where thorn bushes abound. These paths offer a brief reprieve from the wind as we shimmy along cliff walls that block the wind like armor. We’re still acting upon that “fuck it, whatever” mentality, even if the weather might not afford it. But we get to the Crags in due time.

I lie on my stomach and look over the cliffs, seeing the naturally formed pillar designs going down. We meet a guy about our age from California, studying abroad at a “pretty good school” (Oxford), who we walk a solid distance with along the cliff side, up and around, to the point where we can face the sea again. The way down is a field, just at an incline, an even surface leading all the way to the street.

The Californian stays behind as we start making our way down, slowly, casually, then all of a sudden quickly, running, running, RUNNING, landing on our heels, no longer steps but huge leaps, expecting to tumble but knowing it won’t happen. We’re soaring down that hill, my backpack pumping and smashing my back with each great leap. Yaro’s ahead and taking the wind on full force.

What kind of expression does that Californian have, looking at us? Is it of contempt? Wonder? Perplexity?  This thought only lasts for a second because the blazing path down drives it out. It’s not important to think about these things. When the moment’s this kinetic and requires your focus to be pinpoint sharp, you simply can’t afford to.

Nearing the bottom, we start pushing against our momentum and slow down so we don’t go crashing into any oncoming hikers. It feels strange to walk now. It feels even stranger being on the sidewalk, where the wind isn’t so bad. It’s only midday, so we have plenty of time for more sights and sounds. We’re both disorientated from the hike as a whole. The rest of the day will be low-energy strolling, wandering and looking at things. Fine by me. I don’t know if I can handle any more inclines today.

We head in the direction of our hostel, seeing if we can find anything weird going on along the way. A poster for a missing squirrel is stapled to a telephone pole. Down the same street, a dog eyes a ball being kicked around on a crowded sidewalk, and when it gets knocked into the street, the dog leaps for it, teeth barred, catching the ball mid-bounce and bolts out of the way of a speeding taxi.

We stop at a stand that sells all things leather: bags, wallets, notebooks, purses, etc. I’m deciding between two notebooks—oh, the things I can write in these—when the guy behind the stand asks, “You see that lady there?” I turn my head to where the guy’s looking and see a stout woman in a tie-dye dress, looking at jewelry at a stand a few paces away. Her lips are pure metal cylinders. Her ears are nonexistent behind the loops and holes of piercings. Her cheeks, mouth, chin and jaw are all embroidered with metal.

“That woman,” the guy explains, “is the world record holder for most pierced human.” I eye her up and down. It’s odd to think someone with such a legacy can live so normally.

“Guess how many piercings she has?” he asks. “120?” I guess. “9,800,” he replies. I take another look at her. I don’t know if my face holds any expression. I’m totally numb to the fact, floored and feeling out-of-body. “That’s insane,” Yaro exclaims. “I know,” the guy says. “Very nice lady, though.”

We stay a while at this stand while the guy keeps on about life in Edinburgh and the time he met the CEO of RyanAir (the airline I took from New York) and almost socked him in the face. I decide on the more expensive notebook while Yaro gets a wallet, and we’re off again.

Down this same street, we hear hoarse yelling in a familiar American accent. We approach to see a pudgy man in cowboy get-up, waving torches in the middle of the street like a signalman on a runway. A short table stands beside him as well as about a dozen whips. We decide to stay, just to see how crazy this guy can get.

Once a circle of about 100 people surrounds him, all with confused looks, the cowboy—whom I nicknamed Bill even though I have no idea what his name is—blows out the torches and drops them to the ground. “I can’t actually juggle or anything,” he says. “I just want to get your guys’ attention.” A nervous sort of laughter rises from the circle.

Bill then shouts, “I am from Detroit, Michigan, and this is how a cow dies!” then flips over the little table, legs pointing to the sky.

The circle is quiet for a  moment, not really getting the joke. But when they do get it, they laugh; not heartily, but enough that you could say they reacted positively. He then takes the whips and outlines the invisible circle that the people were standing in, lying the whips in the street. He goes back to the center, picks up two whips, and starts swinging them around his body, doing rodeo tricks that would get a Midwestern crowd jeering.

He does this while spitting vaguely sexist jokes that gets the crowd laughing just enough to avoid making things awkward. He pays particular attention to a young French woman—beret, trench coat, the whole Parisian chic look—whom I can tell is made slightly uncomfortable by Bill’s focus but smiles through it anyway, even giving him a light peck on the cheek when he beckons it.

Bill’s performance doesn’t last very long. He ends it by summoning a little tyke’s father with “You, sir, come hither!” who is told to hold out a sleeve of paper while Bill whips it to pieces, blindfolded. The father’s son goes wild when Bill does this, slash, slash, slash  until the father is left with a tiny square about the size of a thumb tip. Then Bill holds out his hat for donations.

We leave, wandering again. The sky loses light. Streets and streets and blocks and blocks, we walk, we walk, we walk. We aren’t utilizing that map as much as we should, but we both like drifting around like bums, more interested in the spontaneity of the streets than the laid-out planning of museums. We don’t really know where we are—somewhere east of everywhere we’ve been—but we’re not rushing.

To take a break from walking, we go into a church where an early evening service is being held. We sit in the back, each on opposite sides of the aisle, and just sit and watch. The priest’s voice is soothing and deep. People walking in smile at us as they make their way toward the front. I’m not a religious man, but the calmness of the church and the priest speaking from the pulpit rids me of some of the natural tension in my body.

The church is warm. I can feel my heart slowing down. I don’t mind sitting here.

We leave after about twenty minutes. A little girl squeals delightfully to a friend across a yard. Hardly any cars out. There doesn’t even seem to be any wind anymore. The day appears to befit my need for a quiet ending to the evening. Yaro takes the map out and points to “Frankenstein Pub Edinburgh,” which turns out to be quite dead when we get there, with dance lights floating around an empty floor in the main room and a Universal monster film playing on the wall for a few pairs of eyes.

We both get wings again and some drinks to keep our heads warm. We drink until we’re feeling just south of steady, then head back to the hostel. The lights are blown out, the darkness seems eternal, everything on the street is punctuated as we wobble on back to our room. We fall into our beds at a good hour and set our alarms for another early morning.

Our plane leaves early in the afternoon, so we have time we for just one more sight: the HMY Britannia. This will be the first boat Yaro’s ever been on, so he’s pretty excited. “You’re from upstate New York,” I say to him while we both eat those same pancakes in that same café, “and you’ve never been on a boat?”

“Nope.”

“Not on the Finger Lakes?”

“Nope.”

“Lake Ontario?”

“Nope.”

“Jesus, dude. Not even a kayak?”

“Not even a kayak.”

This is blowing my mind. We finish and pay our bill, then wander around, trying to find the right bus stop where we need to get picked up and taken to the bay. All the while I’m hyping up the Britannia in my head, more in hopes that it pays off for Yaro than myself.

We’re confused by the posted ticket prices on the glass frame of the correct bus stop once we get to it, and some of these prices have me worried as I’m running a bit low on cash. But the tickets end up being cheaper than the posted prices, and an hour later we’re dropped off beside a gravel field outside of an industrial shipyard.

We have to walk quite a bit to get to the Ocean Terminal. Inside, we get our tickets for the ship and are each given these self-guided commentary devices that look like oversized Motorola phones circa 1997, which is perfectly fitting given that the ship was decommissioned that same year and has since been left at the dock for tourists to wander around.

Neither of us end up using our Motorola stand-ins once on board, nor do we spend much time in the cockpit or upper deck areas. It isn’t until we come upon Queen Elizabeth II’s garage, where her personal Rolls Royce is transported, that we start taking our time looking at things. There’s a plaque that explains that the car has to be taken apart and reassembled every time it’s moved on and off the ship.

You would think the Queen could just buy herself a new Rolls Royce every time she goes someplace new.

Yaro turns me around and points something out. Across the bay and over the mountains is a single flame, a speck of fire like a tiny sun. For some reason, this is beautiful to me, a source of light against the otherwise greyness of the landscape. I imagine it’s an oil rig belching fire on the North Sea, but from the Britannia it’s hardly even there. Quiet industry and a little flame. I stand against the railing for a while, trying to see if it will flicker, but it never does. We move on.

One floor below are all the high class, hoity-toity rooms where I’m sure the Queen and her servants spent most of their time. The long dining table is still adorned with immaculate silverware and folded napkins. The king-sized bed of her Majesty’s bedroom is still made. I see those little circular lace napkins underneath everything. It’s all very old-money and fake feeling, but I guess this is the caliber of wealth of those in power.

In the belly of the ship, we see all the inner workings: the pressure gauges, turbines and gas exhaust pipes. It all looks like what you’d find in the laboratory of a mad scientist. Beside the engine rooms are the living quarters for the crew, complete with jail cell cots and suffocating concrete walls. There is a common room, however, that looks pretty well furnished with a bar fitted near some respectable furniture.

Yaro tries on a sailor’s hat and a jacket lying around that’s too small for him, then takes a seat at the bar, disappointed that the dispensers are dry. Lounging in this room, I feel like I’ve been taken back twenty years. All the cultural amenities of the time are still here, including VHS players and low-def TVs. From what is left behind in the glass cabinets, it appears the crewmen were partial to Michael Crichton novels and early seasons of the Simpsons.

We continue forth through the cramped kitchens and laundry rooms, then exit the ship off the gangplank, Yaro nodding his approval of the experience. It’s about noon and we must get to the airport by two. We’ve already been lugging around all of our things throughout the morning, so we take the bus straight to the airport, where I urinate between two men joking about penis sizes. Yaro asks me which country Birmingham is in while we board.

The short flight back to Dublin is unremarkable, save for the three drunken middle-aged Spanish women sitting a few rows behind me (and right across from Yaro) who laugh shrilly and harass the stewardess the whole way back. “No, we’re just joking, we’re just joking!” they cry out when someone politely asks them to quiet down. Up and down the aisle, passengers turn their heads to look at the source of the commotion. Everybody’s in agreement; they need to shut up. But, except for one woman who backs down easily, nobody musters up the courage to confront them.

I’m able to drown most of it out with my iPod, but Yaro has no such luxury. Even though the flight lasts about an hour, Yaro looks like he hasn’t slept in days when we exit the plane.

His hair is matted, there are beads of sweat trailing down his forehead. He winces every time one of the women laughs from behind us as we walk through the terminal. “I swear to God, I swear to God,” he mutters under his breath. I can finish the sentence any number of ways. He’s ready to cave heads in, so I make sure we walk with some hustle, so we can leave the drunken cries behind.

After that, we take separate buses home. I imagine Yaro’s going to pop some pain killers for the massive headache he must have sustained on the flight, and maybe even calm himself with that whiskey he bought, but me—I’m going to just lie in bed and let the raw tenderness of my muscles course through my body. I’m weak in a general, absolute way and will need the rest of the day to recuperate. But it’s a good kind of weakness, a kind that comes from long distances and heavy burdens on one’s back. I’ll have more energy tomorrow, but for now, I’m content with being horizontal and inactive. Maybe tomorrow I’ll get to writing this thing out…