Princes Street, Edinburgh
Recalling something I’d seen on Mike Daisey’s site a bit back, I sought out the WiFi connection at the Starbucks on Princes Street in Edinburgh. Here I am. The good news is that the dodgy, foreign WiFi card I bought works; the bad news is that the connection here isn’t broadband. Email is coming in at a leisurely, even European, pace. For the record, this Starbucks is brilliant (seats 100, looks out on Edinburgh castle from the second floor through classically lovely windows), and if you find you need chai in Edinburgh, this is the best place to get it. (If you need fine leather sofas and hot chocolate, the Bean Scene a block over from St. Leonard’s is quite nice, though I notice fine seating is much more common here than back in the States.)

I’ve officially done the annoying tourist thing: I’ve collected bits of the speech over here, and I’m not one bit sorry about it. You poor fools who have to talk to me when I get back will be, no doubt. Just a few days in Scotland and I’m finding my brain adopting the meter of the language here. (Me: “You’ve got WiFi here, yeah?”) Having never been surrounded by accents before, I can’t say if this is just something I have a weakness for, or if it’s the result of my long-standing British Isle geekery. Anyway, I apologi(z/s)e in advance to all you poor gits who talk to me when I get back.

This afternoon, the Willow Tea Room in Glasgow, courtesy of lovely wedding gifts from lovely wedding guests, followed by a trip to the famed Necropolis. Go there at night, though, and you die. Now you’re warned.

Tonight we’re back in Edinburgh, though. If it wasn’t for the fact that my total personal worth would be chopped in half by the exchange rate, I might be considering moving here. I like this city that much. Holiday-inspired hyperbole? Sure, perhaps, but I’m enjoying revelling in that, too.

If you’re in Edinburgh now or soon, get yourself one of these keen WKE custom-printed shirts, or one like it. Lovely shop. Say and I picked up a few.

Now, off to catch the train.

Noise: Vague jazz trumpet beneath a layer of peppery Scottish cafe chatter.