They say that travel broadens the mind but sometimes I think it just boredoms the mind. Whilst in theory everywhere in Europe is easily accessible, in practice it takes a day to get anywhere. So eventually, after several hours in transit - the highlight seeing sun for the first time in four days, but sadly from above the clouds - I reached Edinburgh.
Whilst lingering at Copenhagen airport for the mandatory two-hour check-in period plus one-hour flight delay, aimlessly looking around the stores and not buying anything because Copenhagen is THE most expensive place I have ever set foot in (25% tax on everything, just for starters!), I mused on the fact that Scandanavians are a terrifying good-looking race. I was very quickly brought back to earth on landing in Scotland and observing that the natives here aren't quite so tall, blond and thin. But they do speak English. Well, sort of.
Ah well, at least I can afford a taxi here. But it seems no one else can. As I followed the "Taxi' sign out of the airport I walked past innumerable bus stops and horrendously lengthy queues of people waiting to catch the coach into the city. Dragging my case behind me, I had almost walked as far as the car rental pick-up when I reached I tunnel with a sign "Taxis". I trudged through the tunnel to find four taxi drivers and no queue. I was even given a discount voucher.
On the subject of discounts, if you want to smuggle contraband in, Edinburgh Airport is the place to land. There are no customs officers officiously inspecting your customs form and waiting to randomly riffle through your carefully packed baggage and embarrass you by turfing out your smalls for all to witness. No, it's definitely an honour system here because there isn't even a clearly defined 'red' channel so if you have 'something to declare', you have to find your way to a specific desk. Which incidentally had no one manning it. But then when I thought about it, the duty free allowance is 10 litres (if you can carry that much) and who would want to buy whisky duty free when they are coming to Scotland, the holy land of whisky?
At my boutique hotel I was met and raced (literally) to my room in double-quick time by Ian, the owner. I can only assume he was in the middle of his dinner, watching Emmerdale Farm or talking to his long-distance lover. We had a slight moment of confusion (as he was backing hurriedly out of my room) because as we were sprinting up the stairs I had asked if there was internet access and he said he would get me the cord.
We got to the room and he said "12345678".
I looked him at him blankly. "That's the cord," he said.
"For what?" I said.
'The internet."
"Oh. Yes, the code .... and what about the cord?"
"What cord?"
"The cord for the ..... "
Oops, and then I got it. Cord/code ... geddit????
Ian on the other hand, still looked confused, but realising I had all I needed, raced off down the stairs to happily resume his black pudding, Neighbours or ironing his kilt.
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