LAX to GLA

I know I haven't written here in quite a while.

I'm sorry. I really am. I'll make it up to you. Right.

Now.

2011 wasn't a great year for most people. Between lost jobs and lost keys, I don't blame most people.

But 2011 was alright for a particular Ed. Sparing most of the details for now, 2011 was an alright year for the fact that I left the country for the first time.

***

Our flight from LAX to Glasgow stopped in Philadelphia. We departed Philadelphia sometime approaching twilight. I couldn't wait to leave the country. I was unreasonably excited to look out as far out into the Atlantic as possible as we took off. I really wanted to have a profound moment, the "So this is my adventure, and beyond that horizon somewhere...IS THE DESTINATION" moment, and maybe I would snap a quick picture or two to post to Facebook with some profound (or funny) caption. I tried to stare through the window from my aisle seat, but after trying for way too long I could tell the guy in the window seat was starting to feel awkward. At some point, I got tired of trying, and at some point, he closed the window.

I think this was also the point at which I stopped caring about trying to take so many pictures. And all for the better. And the worse for you, poor reader, for you'll see that this post will soon be littered with blank spaces where there should have been beautiful pictures of a land familiar and yet exotic. Alas, those images are for my eyes only and I could never do them justice with words.

I couldn't sleep. I wasn't tempted to watch Just Go With It on the in-flight movie either. (That said...not a terrible movie. Adam Sandler however...not a convincing plastic surgeon.) Neither the guy who I had just tried to stare past or I were interested in small talk for the next 7 hours. Not yet at least.

I finally did sleep a bit, and as we flew north, the Sun came too soon. Not long after, so did the start of our descent. It was at this point that the object of my staring-past and I got to talking. He was from Scotland and had spend 11 years in Connecticut as financial broker of some sort. He was Roblee (or Robleigh? or Rob Lee? Let's call him Roblee) from Glasgow, returning for his mate's stag party. As much of a stag party as hiking into the woods and drinking a whole lot of beer with mates was. 

I take that back. That sounds pretty awesome.

He gave me a few tips as to how we should go about our trip, since through all our pre-trip planning, Jason and I still didn't know what the hell we were doing.

Ambition (our pre-trip planning)

Trust the native.

Which wouldn't have been such a bad idea, except that as we were landing, we started to get an idea for the weather hadn't bothered to check (save for the angry Icelandic volcano that threatened our flights). It was raining, and only after we were scraping the tops of motorway signs and apartment buildings did we break the cloud cover. This will become a significant plot point. We disembarked. I didn't see Roblee again.

We landed in Glasgow May 26, 2011 at 6:55am. Immigration deflowered my passport and off we went towards customs.

I was actually pretty worried about customs. As I was strictly limited to $800 for the entire 10-day trip through the Scottish Highlands and Dublin (on the pound [$1.80:1] and Euro [$1.40:1] respectively), I came prepared with 2 pounds in granola and energy bars. All packed into a stuff sack in my Kelty Coyote 65ST (the ST stands for Short Torso why thank you):

If this gets confiscated, Ed starves.

Wouldn't want any of the other stuff getting yoinked either. If all the stuff on my checklist actually made it in the bag to begin with.

As it turns out, Glasgow Airport customs was a man and woman chatting at a desk. I'm not sure they saw us walk by.

Jason and I made it to the waiting area of the airport where the first order of business was to meet Martin. Martin was our bike man.

I suppose this is a good time to mention that our plan was to make most of this trip on bike. We rented (or "hired" to those speaking the wrong English) the bikes from RT Cycles just outside of Glasgow. Miraculously, through email correspondence alone we were able to get the bikes to show up at the airport just minutes after we landed. Pannier bags, locks, helmets and all.

Martin spoke some strange English. I knew it was English. I just had no clue what he was saying, unless the word was "bike." I'm sure it didn't help that the police officer at the pick-up/drop-off area of the airport was giving him grief for loitering for more than a few minutes--something Martin explained had to do with the bombings that took place at the airport a few years prior. I think that's what he said. Martin was very nice though, and was a good sport about us dumping the contents of our bags onto the sidewalk and asking him to wait just a few minutes more before he took the hollow shells for holding.

[I'm probably sounding wonderfully ignorant right now, but I'm being a little facetious. And really, some Scottish people do just speak far too fast for the slow American brain.]

We had the bikes. After scrambling to stuff the racks and pannier bags, the journey began. We had an ambitious schedule. We knew we wanted to get to Fort William by dark, with the assistance of the train. Based on Roblee's advice, the best way to do this--as a matter of simplicity and adventure--was to take the West Highland Way.

The West Highland Way was one of a handful of hike and bike trails that meandered through Scotland.

Perfect.

Absolutely perfect. All we needed to do was to get to the starting point in Milngavie, bike to Tarbet (on the above map, a bit south from Inverarnan), mount the train, and find a campsite.

By the way, try saying "Milngavie."

Wrong. Like I said, the wrong English. (Yeah yeah, the whole Gaelic thing. Still wrong.)

Two Homes

Well, this is one way to look at one of the damnedest questions in the world: "What is the meaning of life?"

I'm no traveler. No saint. No enlightened being. A believer, but in what exactly I wish I knew; not even in beings, per se, and definitely not in words. Ideas, yes. Numbers...close. I'm an engineer, it's hard to not love numbers in some way...they're an approximation of the closest things to truths humans can know. So do I believe in numbers? Hard to say. That's another story though.

I've not seen lots of the world; only know two languages, and one of them only partially (English and Spanish, and clearly, Spanish is the forte). I don't even have a passport. I'm a student. Student at USC. And when I'm not, I'm a student. In Oxnard. Always a student.

Attending school, moving away from home...man, what an experience. I am happy with who I am today because of going to school. I am vastly different from who I was before I left, hopefully in ways that have made me better--stronger, smarter, wiser, and dammit sexier! (Ok, maybe I'm being a bit modest about that last part.) Funny thing is, "school" and "home" are separated by no more than 60 miles. Yet my lives in either places, are separated by ideas vaster than that. In fact, "school" has become a "home" to me. My great experiences, my great growths--growths as great as learning to walk and becoming literate and conscious--the exact reasons I am who I am today and, no less, satisfied with those things that have made me the wiser...They are here. And I'm sorry, by "here" I mean "school." Although I write this from my "home" in Oxnard. Home...hmm.

So you see...you may not be able to figure out what is really home for me from that last paragraph. We've grown to understand the idea of home as that one location, usually with family and friends from days we don't even remember for lack of consciousness; that one place where we were born. Raised. Developed. Whatever. And if for lack of location, that one place where we find (or found, at one time) family and things that provide us with comfort unbounded, a comfort unexplainable. Home is as much idea as location.

After two years of school in Los Angeles, away from parents and closer to independence, "finding myself" (blah blah) and becoming who I am and forming a belief system/philosophy around my vast experiences there--I've had a crisis of Home. I am absolutely nobody worth noting without my experiences in LA. At the same time, I am not (almost-David) Edward Cruz Gonzales without my experiences in Oxnard/with my family. So where is home? I'd always taken comfort in knowing there was that one place that I could always find (a near) infinite (perception of) comfort. That place where I could be counted among the wise with respect to the outsider; I who call this one place home am truly wise about it in ways you are not--I am superior in this respect. Yes, that one place. But now there was another home. I have a home with the ghetto fabulous farmers. And now a home with The Angels.

My first thought then, especially after freshman year of college, was: Well, shit...I have no home, anymore. I have no one place to run and find comfort during times when I lack it.

For having two homes, I have the penalty of homelessness. At least, like I said, that's what I thought. And for a while, I had come to terms with that. I didn't really fret over it, but it was definitely a strange feeling, to know for the first time in my life, have no one Home.

I could potentially live, live till death and eternity with that idea. And I would be ok...alive and sane at least. But...I eventually became greatly unsettled by the idea of no Home. With the help of a friend I found another perspective--a perspective so simple it is, for lack of other words, fucking ridiculous. Perhaps by running with this idea I could find greater reward in life than settling for the one thing I know.

And maybe my idea of Home becomes much more than that...and my "crisis" evolves into not even a crisis of Home anymore, but an idea stemming from it.

Fucking ridiculous.