The Freshest of Starts

On a whim, I took a solo trip to Scotland in March of 2018. My decision was born out of a mix of frustration with the state of my life and an equally strong desire to shake things up. I needed a new perspective, a fresh start for my 40th year of life. I decided that it was time to start waiting for someone to be my travel buddy and embark on an adventure all my own.

Yes, I considered hiking the Pacific Crest Trail like Cheryl Strayed but I’m not that brave. In the dark? Alone? With no cell phone or heater or emergency vehicle to evacuate me if something went really, really wrong? Nope. Thanks anyway.

Instead I researched the safest places for women to travel alone that also spoke English. (Did I mention after four years of Spanish I can still barely say “Buenos Dias”? My French and Italian are even worse.) Scotland popped up repeatedly, along with Australia, New Zealand, and Ireland. I, however, was curious about Scotland, because that is where my surname originates from. I think. Maybe. The truth is, the genealogical trail of my surname goes stone cold in Edinburgh, Scotland in the late 1700’s with a gent named William James. Possibly the most generic name for a great, great grandfather from Britain or Scotland ever.

A year, a place, and a bland name were all I had to go on, but I was raised by private investigator, so I was undeterred. Actually, I think my wild imagination and my mother’s tutelage had me dreaming of a Sherlock Holmes-style vacation. On Black Friday I purchased my plane ticket and decided I would figure out the rest later. A few short months later I was stepping of a plane in London with a little trepidation and a lot of excitement. The game was well and truly afoot.

The last time I had been abroad, (besides Canada, which really doesn’t count for a Pacific Northwesterner) was the summer before my junior year in high school. Flying into Heathrow, then traveling by train across the UK at 40 was a distinctly new experience from my first trip at 15. Sure, Britain has changed a great deal over the past 25 years, my body is thicker and creaks in odd places, and my brain moves a wee bit slower when jet lagged than it did as a teen. What hadn’t changed was my sheer enthusiasm for the City.

I am from the West Coast, Washington State, to be specific. This means a lot of things, but in a travel context there are three things you need to know. One, bad weather does not phase us. We live in the rain and cold, so visiting the UK in March didn’t make me hesitate for a second. Two, we Northwesterners are often mistaken for Canadians. This really does work in our favor, since pretty much everyone loves Canadians and it often leads to a free beer or two. (Sidenote: not ALL Americans sound like we are from Texas. This does not negate the fact that we are, in truth, Americans. For good and ill.) Last, but certainly not least, we are exceedingly, notably, and sometimes awkwardly friendly.

When I lived in Washington, DC, a woman on the Metro rolled her eyes at me one morning because I’d smiled at her when we made eye contact in passing. “You’re not from here, are you?” She asked with acidic disdain. “Nope,” I replied with my widest smile. “I’m from the West Coast.” She held out for a moment or two and then chuckled. Our brand of friendliness is not naïveté, it is a way of life, and it’s not going to change, no matter where we find ourselves in the world. (This could also explain why we are mistaken for Canadians, but I digress.)

As I moved cautiously through London’s Tube system, I chatted with other travelers who kindly offered directions when I got lost, then found a quiet corner at King’s Cross Station to gawk like a kid at Harry Potter’s train station. (I may be friendly and gauche at times, but I’m savvy enough to try and hide it.) Inside I was bubbling with joy and light in a way I hadn’t felt in years, despite my exhaustion. From there I boarded a train north, following the same route JK Rowling followed when she first imagined a little boy in a magical world and started scribbling down notes for what would become a worldwide phenomenon.

Sadly, inspiration did not strike me on the journey, but I enjoyed it nonetheless. My seat mates were friendly Scots who told me about their village on the coast just south of Edinburgh and offered suggestions of what I should see in the area. I was struck by how familiar and unique the landscape was, as I often am when traveling, and mesmerized by the romantic sweeps of cliffs and crashing waves as we neared the Scottish border.

Over the next week I walked the streets of Edinburgh, rode every tour bus available, spent time writing in coffee shops surrounded by the lilting brogue of the locals, and basically tried to soak the atmosphere into my pores. I heard stories of ghosts and murders and rebellions, walked through the underground remains of a city not long gone, and explored castles and ruined abbeys. And more than anything I marveled at how the literary worlds I held so dear had come to life, as if the buildings were the physical manifestation of those fictional realms. What I did not do was any genealogical research. I thought about it every day as I passed the archives, but I never set a foot inside.

The truth is, once I arrived in Scotland, I realized what I had been searching for, the romanticized adventure I’d been seeking, was actually… me. In the chaos and business of life I had lost a part of myself that I desperately need to be happy. You may call it my muse or the child within or any other name you choose. It is the part of me filled with wonder and curiosity and a craving for the new, the rare, the daring. I found her again in the damp and dark of Scotland and got my happy beginning for the next 40 years of life. For me, this was freshest of starts.