St. Andrews, Scotland

The Royal & Ancient Golf Clubhouse at St. Andrews

I'm slowly working my way through video taken during our recent trip to Scotland. I don't have much in the way of editing tools so I find myself stuck with the raw video. Ah well. I'm learning a lot about what I should and shouldn't do next time.

This little movie of St. Andrews was taken after a harrowing drive from Edinburgh in a rental car. Thankfully, my husband was driving because we wouldn't have made it alive if I had been behind the wheel. Even though I began to get used to seeing people drive on the left side of the road, there is something forever cemented in my brain that kept screaming, "LOOK OUT! You're going to die because you're on the wrong side of the road!" I wish I was just being dramatic, but I'm not. I was a complete wreck by the time we got back to our flat that evening. My husband and I had a little heart-to-heart about avoiding rental cars as much as possible for the rest of our vacation. I had to voice my concerns tactfully so as not to insult his driving techniques. Being the wonderful man that he is, he took it all in stride.

On this particular day we ended up driving a little more than necessary because we kept missing turns that were clearly marked on our map, but not on the streets. Scotland's street signage is a little skimpy. We ended up winding around and going back and forth over the same roads until we finally got it right, only to find that the road didn't lead us to the place we were aiming for (we were looking for a particular hotel bar so we could stop and have a drink). We settled on second choice, the Rusack's Hotel, which is where you can hear silverware tinkling in the background (mine, as we were the only people in the bar at the time). We ordered a "full tea" for the equivalent of about $16 per person that consisted of ham and grated cheddar cheese on buttered white bread, cucumber and tuna fish salad on wheat bread, potato chips, various desserts that provided me with my first taste of clotted cream (yum!), and of course, tea. If our priority hadn't been the cultural experience we might've been a little annoyed at the price. You can just imagine that they saw us Yanks coming from a mile away and somebody said, "Quick! Get the tourists' menu out!"

The weather was windy and cold (you can hear the wind howling around us in the outdoor shots) with a few sprinkles thrown in for added effect. We shopped a little while there and bought some authentic St. Andrew's Golf Course paraphernalia as well as some Scottish tartan woolen throws. It is almost as difficult to find "made in Scotland" items as it is to find things "made in USA".

The town of St. Andrews is, to put it mildly, quaint. It reminded us of Carmel, California, which is one of our favorite places, although the median age of the buildings in St. Andrews has many hundreds of years on the buildings in Carmel. The sense of history in Scotland is just awe-inspiring. It was my first exposure to such a collection of ancient buildings, although I understand that that is the norm in  many countries. In California, we speak with pride about a building in Old Sacramento that was built in the 1850's. A contemporary build compared to what we saw in Scotland.

Downtown St. Andrews

Once again, I apologize for the amateur-level video, but I hope it gives you a taste of St. Andrews. Except for the car ride, I thoroughly enjoyed the day.

One Hour on a Bus in Edinburgh

Edinburgh City Bus Tour

I'm not very good with my video camera yet, but I thought I'd post the video I made during a city bus tour my husband and I took while in Edinburgh last month. It was a good introduction to the city and a good way to see some sights while still recovering from jetlag and our nightmarish experience on the plane. Our tour guide was a very friendly woman named Gwen, who we found typified most of the Scottish people we met while there. I highly recommend vacationing there.

Pop a dramamine and enjoy!

Come Fly With Me, Come Fly, Come Fly Away....

Recently, I boarded a plane with my husband (not the one above, obviously) to fly from San Francisco to Amsterdam, on our way to Edinburgh. We flew KLM, Royal Dutch Airlines. Do not let the name fool you. Royal Pain in the A-- Airlines would be more accurate. We flew Economy Class. Again, a misnomer. It's really Serf Class. But then, we were flying to Edinburgh so what could be more appropriate than to pretend we were serfs. The problem was that nobody checked first to find out if we were game. I, as it turned out, was not.

When it was time, we went to our gate and waited to be called for boarding. I was feeling more than a little apprehensive about the 10 hour flight and the 11 hour layover in Amsterdam before we would proceed to Edinburgh.  I asked my husband if the plane we’d be on was bigger than the planes I was familiar with (I admit I am a novice when it comes to flying). The most I'd done recently was a two hour flight to Tucson in a 737. He assured me it would be much bigger, but warned that it would also be a lot more crowded. I had no idea. It went something like this:

Our row is called. We shuffle down the long, narrow, stuffy ramp to the plane. A flight attendant at the door checks our boarding passes. We go thru a narrow opening into the Serf Class section of the plane. Another attendant is flagging people to their appropriate side of the plane to find their seat. Down we go, passing row after row of full seats that are incredibly close to an adjacent wall with small openings to kitchens and lavatories. Our seat numbers are in row 42. Way down, over the wings. Oh good, I naively think. Sitting up here across from this wall would feel so claustrophobic. Glad I'm not up here.

Row 42. Doesn’t look too bad, but wait. Our seats are not on the window side of the plane. They are in the middle, where the wall used to be; four seats all in a row. As I study how close the seat backs are from the seats in front of them, I figure I must be hallucinating. I’m flabbergasted. Before climbing in I start thinking about how it’s going to feel to have my head in that tiny space. After my husband wrestles our bags into the upper compartments, I take the bags I want handy and start stuffing them under the seat in front of me by drop-kicking them into place. I sink into my chair, start doing some deep breathing exercises, and whisper, “Oh God...” the sincerest prayer I’ve ever prayed. Once seated, I found that I couldn’t lean over far enough to touch my fingers to my ankles, and even to get this far my face smashes into the seat in front of me. The flight is 10 hours long, and I am literally wedged into a space designed to comfortably hold my 20 lb granddaughter. To make the flight even more enjoyable both of the people in the seats in front of us elect to immediately, and permanently, push their seat backs out of the upright position so that, if I wanted to, I could count the hairs on their heads to pass the time.

Eventually, a couple of hours into the flight, dinner is served. I was optimistic that we'd at least have something to do to pass the time for a little while and take my mind off my space problem. Not to be. To get the full effect of what we experienced during our meal here’s what you can do at home. Strap yourself into a dining room chair with another chair within 6 inches of your nose. Then put your arms at your sides and have someone tie them down at your elbows. Now have your helper put a small, flimsy plastic tray full of food on your knees. The challenge here is to actually get food on a tiny picnic-size utensil and lift it all the way to your mouth without flipping the food over your shoulder. Trust me. This is fun for the whole family.

After a few hours I realized what a joke it was thinking I was going to whip out my knitting and while away the hours working on a cap. In fact, I had put enough yarn in my carry-on for two caps. I didn’t even crack a book, let alone knit. How could I? I couldn’t reach the floor to pull out my bag, and even if we did somehow manage that, I didn’t have any extra space in my lap for my knitting needles.

Finally, it was time to attempt sleep. We were jumping ahead 9 hours from San Francisco to Amsterdam, so suddenly it was 2:00 in the morning. Time to pop an Ambien and whisper another prayer for at least semi-consciousness for a few hours. I managed to wiggle my eye mask out of my purse, and then in a complete act of defiance, I too tilted my seat back out of the upright position and tucked my 4 inch pillow behind my head. Well, God is indeed good, and I think my husband and I both managed to doze for a few hours. Enough to make the time go by quicker, but not nearly enough to meet the minimum FDA requirement.

At long last we land in Amsterdam. How odd we humans are. The people all around us were noticeably quiet during the flight (probably couldn't inhale enough to produce any long sentences), but as soon as the ‘fasten seat belt’ sign was off and people began standing, there was a flurry of conversation. I overheard several people that were standing right next to each other in a row, who had just spent the past 10 hours sitting next to each other, discussing what they were going to do in Amsterdam, who they were going to see, who they worked for, etc., as if it was suddenly safe to open up because the conversation could only last for the few minutes they had before leaving the plane. I, however, uttered only a few necessary words to my husband, thinking that if I could just hold on another few minutes, I could have my panic attack in the comfort of the airport terminal.

Well, we made it to Edinburgh and have been enjoying our visit. Two nights after we got here we called KLM. We've upgraded our seats on the way home to Business Class. It only cost us $5000. Some things you just can't put a price on -- well, I guess you can. In this case, it's $5000. When I get on the plane, I will still whisper a little prayer for all the serfs, but fortunately for me I will not be one of them.

Prunes. It's What's for Dinner.

Prune-Fest 2009

One of my granddaughter's favorite foods is prunes. All in all, a yummy feast was had by all, and believe it or not, none of it ended up on the floor. We are nothing if not tidy.

I don't think Lily's mom was even in the same league when it came to face painting with food. And all she had to work with was a crummy biscuit.

Biscuit-Fest 1980

Up for Adoption

Twenty-nine years ago, when I was almost 26, I had a baby girl. I was single, making a minimum wage, living alone, and my baby's biological father (who I had been madly in love with) was nowhere to be found. I had the unrealistic hope that he would be so overcome by a sense of love and devotion once he saw the baby (which he never did, by the way) that he would sweep us off our feet and protect and provide for us forevermore. (What planet was I living on?) That was not to be, but I still wanted very much to be married for all the conventional reasons, and felt quite desperate about seeking a mate; there was no one on the horizon. That desperation probably seeped out making the whole "landing a man" thing less likely (men can smell desperation a mile away), even though I tried very hard to play it cool.

Back in 1980, the year of my daughter's birth, unwed mothers were still a bit risque. I hoped that being a single mother would add another layer to the veneer I was laying down that told the world I was tough, independent, liberated and didn't care what the establishment thought. The truth of the matter was that I was very tired all of the time, lonely a good part of the time, and constantly broke, although I can honestly say that I truly didn't care what the establishment thought.

I never doubted, however, my ability to be both mother and father. I always felt that my love for my daughter was so great that she couldn't possibly feel a void in her life that should have been filled by a father. And I think to some extent this was true.

After many years of dating - finding a few men along the way that I thought I loved but didn't love me, finding men who thought they loved me but I didn't love them, and finding men who fit neither category - I found my husband with whom I first had an off-again on-again relationship that went on for more than a decade before he finally decided he was ready. During our long courtship (I can't think of a word that actually describes what we put each other through during those years) my husband had watched my daughter grow up and had played the role of 'dad' in her life, even more so than most 'real' fathers I have known. By the time we married, my daughter was 17 and given her delicate emotional state (what can I say -- she was 17) we didn't entertain the idea of my husband adopting her, although we had discussed it previously and I knew my husband loved the idea, even though he already had five grown children.




A few years later, my daughter got married and a few years after that, got pregnant. At the same time, we were finally putting together our Last Will and Testament, and for some reason, once again talking about my husband legally adopting my daughter. She was already 28, married with a baby on the way, but somehow it just seemed like such a beautiful idea. For many years my husband had felt like her father, and my daughter saw him as a dad, but wouldn't it be sweet and wonderful to make it so in the eyes of the law as well. To our joy, my daughter was enthusiastic about the idea, as were all five of my husband's children.

Yesterday, with our 7 month old granddaughter in tow, we went to court. The judge barely said two words to us as he pored over the documents we had filed, making sure everything was in order. He then looked up at us, the only people in the courtroom, and said, "Well... that's it." The four of us (my husband, my daughter, her husband, and myself) practically said in unison, "That's it?", and we were done.

As we walked to the elevator to go home, I fought back tears. I was amazed at the depth of my feeling about what had just transpired. I thought to myself, I'm a parent with someone now. My daughter has a mother and a father. She's legitimate. Why these thoughts crossed my mind I don't know since I never felt she was illegitimate just because her biological father chose to abandon us. I never felt we were less of a family because it was just the two of us. But it was almost as if the void being filled yesterday was in my psyche as much, if not more, than in my daughter's. I felt as if a gap in our family circle was finally closed. I felt more complete somehow.

On the way out last night, I thought my son-in-law summed it up beautifully in his parting words to my husband. He said, "Thanks for adopting my wife."

Thank you, sweet husband, for adopting my child.