(I am reposting this because earlier this week I was put in Facebook Jail for urging Ukrainians to "bomb the road", meaning the 40 mile long road into Kyev. In any case I hope you enjoy another Debbie Memory)
When my daughters entered their teenage years they begged me to take them to Europe.
Deb begged me too. But she was always much more clever about it. She'd show the girls photo albums of our first trip to Europe, a 3 week romp that merits its own story. And our springtime jaunt all over the Iberian peninsula where we had discovered she was pregnant with Abby.
Of course that just egged my girls on some and brought about a steady stream of pleadings with the additional twist...
"Come on, it'll be a great opportunity to visit your Aunt Helen and her family in Glasgow."
"OK, we'll see," I replied, for the 1000th time.
By the time they had turned 14 and 15 years old they knew to interpret that as, "We're never going to get to Europe."
But it turns out, I yielded. Why not, I thought. I had enjoyed many lucrative years as a freelancer. We had thousands of frequent flyer miles aching to be used. Plus I had just learned the phrase YOLO -- You only live once.
It was quite the eventful trip, starting with a hellish 15 hour flight stuffed into an airline seat barely bigger than an NBA player's shoebox. And seated next to a man who had smoked a carton of Marlboros before boarding the plane, seated in the shoebox next to mine.
By the time I walked off the plane my oxygen level had been depleted and my bronchitis kicked in. At dinnertime, and after a few beers that I thought would help me recover, I almost passed out, face first into a bowl of whatever curry was placed in front of me.
Once again, Deb dashed me off to St. Thomas Hospital, which was a block away from our hotel. And none too soon. As in had I waited any longer I would have been admitted.
But I wasn't, and thanks to the Brit's universal healthcare, I was good as new and up to factory specs within hours. After touring London for a few days, a city Deb and the girls found indescribably charming, we boarded a train at Waterloo Station for the 5 hour ride up to Glasgow.
Indulging in my newfound YOLO philosophy, I had booked us a First Class Car and we found ourselves in luxurious seats separated by a dining table, where we enjoyed lunch and more recuperative beers.
In accordance with legendary British punctuality, we pulled into the mammoth-sized Glasgow Central Station right on time. I have always loved train stations and found myself gawking.
"Come on old man, let's keep walking, we have to find a cab to get us to the hotel," pleaded my fast walking wife, always accompanied by a rolling eyeball.
We exited the station to bitter coldness, beautifully-scented by the burning cigarettes, seemingly in the mouth or hand of every Glasgowegian. Crossed the street to Scotland's version of the London Black Cab and a jolly driver who welcomed us to Scotland while no doubt anticipating getting his half-gloved hands on some of that nice American cash.
Our luggage, don't forget, there were four of us, filled the entire boot of his vehicle. We quickly jumped in to escape the omnipresent stinging rain that always makes any trip to the United Kingdom a pure joy.
"Where to my Yankee friend?" I might be paraphrasing there.
"The Glasgow Central Hotel, my good man," I'm still paraphrasing. I never say my good man.
The driver turned around from his right-sided driver's seat, gave me a nasty eye-roll of his own, and said...
"For Fuck's Sake, you're at the hotel. It's right above the train station!!!"
Turns out, the Glasgow Central Train Station was also the Glasgow Central Hotel.
"The hotel is right above the station, you bloody wanker."
And then he started laughing. And we all started laughing.
He unloaded the luggage and helped us back across the street. To the hotel (where, coincidentally my mother had worked years ago as a housekeeper). At which point Deb nudged me with her elbow and motioned for me to reach for my wallet.
I handed the cab driver a twenty dollar bill for a cab ride that never happened.
And I apologized profusely.
"Don't worry about it mate. This is the funniest thing to have happened to me all day. Can't wait to get home to tell me wife."
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Blessing #4a
Pictured in the center is my lovely Aunt Helen, one of the sweetest and easily-amused people on the planet. I rarely understood a word she said, but she could perfectly understand my Yankee English, which always resulted in her laughing, laughing that sounded exactly like the way my late mother used to laugh.
As if the last few years have not been difficult enough, I just found out this week that my Aunt Helen passed away last August.
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