Digital Wanderer

Let me explain why I bought a tour (for the first time in my life). The thing is, my plan included days when I'd be hanging out with friends. However, their free days were limited, and the planning didn't go as smoothly as I would have liked. It turned out that I had three free days after flying in, then Katya arrives from Liverpool, then Andrey has four days off, and I have another one or two free days. After giving it some thought, I realized I wouldn't have time to travel anywhere far at a relaxed pace. Usually, tourists wanting to see more scenic beauty rush to the famous Isle of Skye or further north. Scotland — is not a small country, mountainous on top of that, and every such trip takes several hours.

What I hate about traveling is the scenario where you're constantly on the road, rushing, missing buses, or showing up way too early just to make it. In the end, the whole trip degenerates into constant, exhausting transit. For this reason, calls to drive around and look at various things never really inspired me. Having a car on a trip is cool, nobody's arguing with that. However, it's good not to miss the point where you're spending more time inside it than outside. I've always been drawn to hiking and biking, to nature, and that's why I ditched the plan to see as many tourist attractions as possible as fast as possible. FOMO — the fear of missing out on everything in the world, is basically one of the plagues of our time. It's fostered by the media, which constantly reminds us that there are absolutely beautiful and highly essential people, things, and places. It's also closely intertwined with a short attention span, where a person only has enough interest to step out of the car, snap some pics for Instagram, and get back in. The latter (Instagram) only adds insanity to this process, fueling not a desire to see the world, understand something, or share with others. Instagram fuels vanity, the urge to show off, to prove to everyone that you're no slouch, and that you've ticked all the checkboxes on the list of must-visit places.

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In the last episode, I forgot to add an interesting detail. When I plopped down onto the grass and didn't get up for a while, a passerby crossed from the opposite side of the street and sympathetically asked if I was okay. I assured him that I'd had worse (which is true), and that I seemed to be able to walk (which is also true).

I slept poorly. My leg hurt a lot, despite the painkillers. I didn't go to the doctor right away, relying on the famous Russian "maybe it'll pass," and besides, early the next morning I had a highlands tour waiting for me. I really didn't want to miss out on it (though you'd think losing a leg would be way sadder). As a result, I got up at half past seven in the morning (an unprecedentedly early hour for me). I hobbled, leaving plenty of spare time, to Rabbies Cafe, which is located very close to the center and is where the tours of the eponymous company start. As it turned out, there were almost a dozen minibuses parked there, with several driving the exact same route. I was given the name of the driver-guide, which turned out to be Stephan. The dude, a short, middle-aged guy with a surplus of torso and a deficit of hair on his head, turned out to be a massive joker and started firing off jokes right from the get-go. I suspect that guides are bred this way, wherever it is they spawn.

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I suggest we count the mishaps — that way we'll see if Dad's theory holds up. As I wrote recently, the very first thing I did in Edinburgh was buy a falafel salad. A salad, so as to avoid eating the bun, which I should steer clear of if I'm firmly intent on losing weight after all. While waiting for my order, I exchanged a few words with a very skinny, young guy. At first, this didn't work out because he was rummaging around in the ceiling of his kiosk looking for the necessary accessories: the price you pay for the tininess of the establishment. As soon as he finished, I learned his name was Iain (or Ian?). That was the name (unfortunately, in the past tense) of a cool and famous Scottish writer — Iain Banks. Who wrote, among other things, the excellent "Culture" series of novels, which I've recommended more than once.

Iain in our Latvian reading would probably be Jan. Ian turned out to be the son of a Scottish father and a French mother. Apparently, the Scots will go to any lengths, even mail-ordering French women, just to avoid dealing with the English. Of course, nowadays this is just on the level of joking banter and teasing. However, there is this feeling lingering in the air. If cataclysms and upheavals start, the Scots will remind the English of everything, and will probably even leave the UK. Maybe they'll even kick their asses for old times' sake.

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