Trip to Glasgow

When I came to the UK my plan was to go to Wales. I had read an old Welsh myth in my Arthurian Legend class and wanted to visit the bright green forests that King Arthur had fictitiously walked in. It was beneficial as well that I had so many friends living in Wales at the time. One was a park ranger on one of their national woodlands, one was a nurse fighting the Covid pandemic, and some were hippies that had set up a commune in God-knows-where. And as fun of an adventure it would have been to live amongst the faeries in the forests of Wales, the Lady of the Lake had different plans for me.

When I landed in Manchester one characteristically rainy afternoon, three friends were waiting for me at the airport. They said they’d be happy to take me to Wales. We went to a mutual friend’s house in a town two miles across the border to spend the night. And that was the farthest I ever made it into Wales. Little did I know at the time, my trip had been hijacked.

The next day, to my pleasant surprise, was the first day the pubs would be open again after the first pandemic lockdown. So, when we all woke up, we drove to a town just north of Manchester – I forget its name – to go drinking, like it was a sport. I wasn’t sure how it was possible, but when we arrived, the people who had picked me up from the airport, must have known 15 other folks between them who were already at the bar. Instantly there was a pint in my hand, merriment in the air, and Football on the TV. Of all countries to visit from the US, the United Kingdom isn’t one you expect to get the biggest culture shock, but I had never heard people singing in a bar before. Still, when in Rome…

After many hours of unremittent drinking, one of our small group informed us that she had to catch the last train back to Glasgow to see her family. We knew this time would come; she had informed us earlier that day. So we said goodbye and continued to toast, but this time in her honor. We told stories about her, reminiscing on the times that she had been with us. Which for me, was only about twelve hours or so. But I missed her too.

Eventually the time came for last call and we all had to pay for our beers which had gone unpurchased so far. We had had the great idea to combine our bill with the other twelve people we came with so that now, we not only had to remember how many beers we had drunk but also calculate just how much of the tab we owed. No, the owner hadn’t kept track. I expect this was so he could squeeze more money out of the occasional drunkard. I was amazed I had agreed to this when sober. I must’ve thought I would become some kind of alcoholic savant if I expected my inebriated self to do all this math.

An argument started amongst those present about who owed what. So we did the honorable thing and snuck out the back. We found another bar and had one more pint, talking about our evening. Everyone still missed Jess – the girl who left – but we all decided it was time to go home. So we piled in the car with our designated driver who, out of some amazing talent or incredible force of will, managed to refrain from drinking the whole day.

As we drove, the twilight painted the English pastures in a calm blue light and thick forests and rolling hills began to drift past my window. And I didn’t recognize them. I began to wonder, “Were we taking a different way back?” I didn’t say anything, chalking It up to being drunk in a different country. But then my friend asked if there would be any corner stores open when we got back to Manchester and our driver replied, “Haven’t you noticed? We’ve been driving to Glasgow for an hour now.”

Both of us shot up in our seats. We started cheering and danced as much as we could inside a car. We said we knew he was driving somewhere funny. We said we knew he wasn’t taking us back. We had been kidnapped. And it was the greatest thing in the world.