The Scottish Exodus

First Contact

Andrea with some handsome devil at Hudson's wedding, August 1999.

21 September 2000
Baird Hall, Rm. 312 On Sauchiehall Street, Glasgow, Scotland

Some observations on our arrival in Glasgow while my wife quietly fumes over my disinterest in going to the pub:

Andrea has always said that if you don’t expect anybody to help you, then it’ll be a pleasant surprise when they do. Fairly cynical coming from her, but then that’s just how she can be. However, she was remarkably correct in this instance. After Wednesday’s much tangled and much lengthened exodus, I was beginning to feel. . .well, like shit.

The delay in Detroit before we even got near a plane was the start. Andrea freaking out briefly at this in the check-in queue for Continental didn’t help matters either. Learning that we would be flying directly to London-Gatwick, then flying to Glasgow was relatively okay (at least we were going to Britain that day, even if it was Northworst). However, having to check in with our British Air flight to Glasgow by first arriving in the Gatwick South Terminal, then taking a train to the Gatwick North Terminal for immigration and customs, and then finally taking a bus (the train was down) back to the South Terminal to queue through British Air’s lovely check-in process (the time-dated digital security picture was a nice touch) was much more difficult than it sounds (cue sarcasm). Seeing Baird Hall, our temporary bed and breakfast style lodging for the first time, with its art-deco architectural motif dulled by mental hospital furnishings and pastel paint, was neither a plus nor a minus. It was simply luggage storage and a bed. But a zero-sum was not what I needed at that moment. The kicker for Wednesday, of course, was the flat listings in The Herald, mostly because there were hardly any listings in Merchant City or the City Centre for the price range we wanted or could afford. Dinner at Café Antipasti went down like a lead pellet.

Today was better, proving, in the process, Andrea’s paranoid dictum correct. Glaswegians actually wanted to help us when we asked! And they did! It was all rather amazing really. Part of the problem on Wednesday was our feeling of isolation. We knew no one, had little to no help from Strathclyde as far as initial arrangements were concerned (I was pretty much blown off by the Strathclyde Accommodations office when I called from Gatwick—go to Baird Hall and let them figure it out was their advice), and were feeling particularly overwhelmed. However, the people we encountered were glad to help. The Strathclyde History Department staff, Jo and Alison, was cheerful, informed, and friendly to a tee. They actually knew who I was once I said my name and had a packet of useful information ready for me. Sharon, the reality agent we talked with today, was extremely helpful (Andrea, paranoid as usual, joked that she thought Sharon had taken pity on us). She set up viewings of three different hovels in our price range and massaged us through the process of putting some cash on a flat. Glasgow, dirty, nervous, oppressive, became Glasgow, dirty, nervous, rather quite cheerful really. We have a place to live, a one bedroom furnished flat the size of my mom’s master bedroom closet, with a refrigerator the size of a beer cooler in a frat house and blue carpeting. Everything in ordnung, we move in the 29th.

This nine-month exodus now becomes acclimation. In time, this too shall be conquered. Of course, the real mission for my right now becomes finding the Internet, so as to publish this log entry. I’m beginning to get hot flashes from my withdrawal, and Andrea’s starting to look like a network jack I want to plug into. Glasgow, ahhhh. . .

---drew, yes, it does really rain at least once a day here. . .

Copyright ©Andrew D. Devenney, 2009, all rights reserved.