Scotland: Part One

I'm sitting in our dressing room behind the Infamous Spiegeltent in Edinburgh, Scotland listening to the soothing sounds of someone playing an accordion nearby. It is noon here, and the Spiegeltent staff are just now coming to work after a long and late opening night. I am taking advantage of a free wifi connection on sight, while my band mates catch up on some sleep back at our flat.

We are now 5 days into our third tour of Scotland. So much has happened already. Ike, accompanied by his wife, Carrie, flew over to Edinburgh over a week ago to take a vacation in the northern highlands. Betse, Nate and I flew to Newark, NJ on Thursday morning, then prepared ourselves for an 8 hour layover that quickly turned into 11 grueling hours once Continental Airlines got through with us. We boarded the cramped aircraft around 1am, then settled in for the six-hour flight to the UK.

The Wilders airport/flying experience really deserves a blog of it's own. But I will sum up this particular flight by saying that we all looked like cadavers when we spilled out into the airport. It was now after 1pm in Edinburgh, and we had been in airports or flying for over 24 hours.

For those who haven't had the pleasure of travel to the United Kingdom, I'll tell you that before you get to claim your luggage, you must first go through customs. The first couple of times we did this, it was a little nerve racking. I mean, they could easily deny us entry if they wanted to- and then what? But, we've grown used to this process by now, and the Scottish customs agent was quite friendly as she looked over our paperwork. She asked where we were playing, and then double-checked the Fringe Festival guide for our name. Our listing on the Spiegeltent schedule was more than enough to corroborate our story, and she let us pass into the UK without further delay. We grabbed up our luggage (all of which arrived with no problem), and headed out into a classic Scottish midday sun shower. Scotland reminds me a lot of Juneau, Alaska in that it seems to rain constantly, but never enough to cause you to get truly wet. And after a few days, you don't even really notice it anymore.

We were greeted by our illustrious driver/tour manager Gerald Roche. I looked back into the blog archive to see if I've ever written about Gerald and, grossly, I have not. Gerald actually deserves an entire blog entry of his own too. Maybe I'll post a full description next week once I've lived with him long enough for me to describe him with the color and detail that he so richly deserves. Anyway, Gerald helped us with our bags and cases into the parking lot and then to the car (borrowed from a friend), which he brought to fetch us from the airport. All of you folks crying about the high price of gas prices in the US should know that gas in Scotland is now averaging around 3 British pounds....PER LITER! (you do the math)... This is the reason why Gerald borrowed his friend's fuel-efficient car, instead of bringing a gas-guzzling van. The only problem came when we tried to load all our crap into the tiny vehicle. It was minivan-ish, but SMALL. We tried several configurations, finally settling on the only one that allowed all four of us to actually get inside the car. Betse and I held onto a suitcase balanced on top of the bass case, and I shaped myself into a human comma, hunching forward with the top of the banjo case filling the space where my head should have been.

Luckily it was only a 40 mile drive to Perth. With the promise of serenity and rest waiting for us at our hotel, we endured the discomfort. In fact, both Betse and I slipped into a light sleep once we were on the highway. But suddenly, during an evasive maneuver that Gerald was required to make, the suitcase that neither of us were holding any longer, shifted and hit Betse squarely on the head- trapping her for a moment until she shoved it off with a groan. The phrase "rude awakening" was never more appropriately coined. More to come...