A CANADIAN, AN AMERICAN, AND A PORTUGUESE VIRUS - GLASGOW, SCOTLAND - DAY 14

I’m feeling better (I hope). The cold seems to come and go and can’t decide if it’s staying or leaving. I think it would be good to get out of the house regardless.

Andrea has already agreed to help her Canadian friend, Dan, to take him and his friend (Ashley) visiting to a hike because Andrea has a car and they don't. Andrea told me that it’s just an easy hike, no more than an hour, so I dress in jeans, envisioning a small hill to hike up for views.

We drive over to the Canadians around the block, and to our surprise, Dan's girlfriend, Sarah, decides to tag along. She wasn’t supposed to come, but now the seating situation is a bit harry. Before leaving to pick them up, Andrea looks at me swiftly and says, “Don't make any jokes about Canadians. Sarah is the more serious type”. Great, I think to myself. No jokes about how they pronounce “bags” as “baaaaahgs”.

They aren’t large people, but the car is small, and so the three “large” Canadians squish in the back. I was meant to sit in the middle, but let me tell you briefly about the dreaded “middle”....

My entire life, because I’m of small stature, my place was always in the middle; the middle seat of a car when you need to squish and you get squished the most, and can’t wear a seatbelt so you’re just laying your life on the line for the other two larger people at either side of you who could definitely take a hit for you in a car accident, the middle of the bed where it becomes impossibly hot until you feel like you’re sleeping in Satan’s armpit and there’s no escape, and you’re definitely not sleeping because no one can sleep in that insane heat or get up to go to the bathroom, or in the middle seat of an airplane where you can sleep on the window side or look at the views, and you don’t have an easy access to the bathroom or pretend-extended leg room at the aisle side, you just get slept on, and of course, squished. Also, I just have to add, sitting in the middle seat of a car was always prompted with, “XYZ man-friend or male relative is so much bigger, and he needs the leg room up front in the passenger seat. So you get the middle because you’re smaller”. I swear to Christ Almighty the moment I turned 18 I’ve been dedicating myself to never let the man take my individually assigned passenger seat at the front, so help me God. Down with the patriarchy!

At the thought of sitting in the middle because I’m “small” made me unusually angry and I told Andrea that if they can’t fit everyone, I’d just rather stay home- I’m not feeling 100% as it is. Her response was to remain loyal and say, “No way! If you’re staying at home, I’m staying at home”! I appreciated that, but felt it unnecessary. She told Dan about the seating situation prior to us picking them up, but his sweet, innocent, and always positive Canadian self didn’t consider that his girlfriend suddenly coming would be an issue for space... They come out to greet us, and a few introductions later, I strategically and slyly wait outside of the car until they squish themselves in the back of their own accord, and I still get the front seat. It’s knees to the dashboard, but it’s all to myself.

We drive about twenty minutes out. I’m shy as always, so I don’t make much for conversation, but hearing Dan end every Canadian sentence with “eh”, brings me joy. I must preface American sentiments about Canadians. We always begrudgingly grumble, “Damn Canadians” or “F***king Canadians”, but not in an angry or resentful way. We just know that they are always kind, generous, warm, good people as opposed to the aggressive, loud, and universally frowned upon Americans. Everyone loves Canadians, and everyone hates and makes fun of Americans. Canada has a better sense of community by always helping each other survive and thrive whereas America is often taught to “fend for yourself because no one is helping you”. Canadians can come to America and achieve the American dream, (*lists every Canadian celebrity ever), but Americans can’t come over the border and do the same. (This is more of a dig at the American entertainment industry for outsourcing resources- The Canadians don’t know any better and we still love the shit out them because they gift us with kindness, talent, syrup and hockey). Canadians also have accessible healthcare. Damn Canadians.

DAN: So Emilie, what do you do eh?

ME: Oh, I work in the film industry.

SARAH: Can you turn the heat down I’m feeling kind of feverish. *cough cough.

ME: *Who the f**k says “feverish” at our age? If she’s sick, why tf did she come hiking?!*

SARAH: *cough cough.

ANDREA: Oh yeah, I just crank the heat because the windows fog.

SARAH: *cough cough.

DAN: Yeah Sarah caught something fierce when we were all in Portugal.

ANDREA: Wait, like something airborne, or something you ate?

SARAH: *cough cough. Coughcoughcough.

ASHLEY: We don’t really know what from, but she’s been like this for a while.

SARAH: Definitely something airborne. *cough cough. I feel it mostly in my lungs.

DAN: Yeah, but the beaches were beautiful eh.

SARAH: *cough cough cough cough. Inhales deeply. Cough cough cough...

ME & MY INNER MONOLOGUE: Oh my f**k. This crazy girlfriend decided to come on a hike knowing full well she CAN'T, and now we’re all squished in very close proximity to each other, in Andrea’s little tin box with wheels, and she’s quarantined us with her unknown Portuguese contagion. WE. ARE. SO. F**KED.

We park in a field, and clamber out of the clown car. Andrea hands me her wellies. I appreciate this assuming it with be a gelatinous hike with the rain turning everything into slippy, sticky mud. I look over and see the sign for the hike, “Devil’s Pulpit”. “Oh dear” I think to myself. I’m thrilled to hike this because it’s at the top of the tourist list online, but I am not prepared for this hike, like at all. I didn’t know this was where we were going. I would’ve brought my other pants, maybe my bathing suit, and definitely my other sneakers, and a plastic baaahggg for my phone.

We take on the hike, and end up in some fairytale fantasy land. The mass amounts of tourists haven’t arrived yet, and it’s just our group scaling down steep rock steps encased in slippery mud. We climb our way down and all through this beautiful little pocket of nature bliss. Because of the rain, all of the surrounding rocks and trees are covered in a thin sheet of moss. The water in the river runs high as well. As we trudge through, the water comes to the top of our wellies, but not over and in our boots thankfully.

We take photos and enjoy the scenery. Despite Sarah coughing everywhere, she made an excellent point in noting that this place is best to be kept unstructured so more tourists can’t come in and ruin it. If they made it a safer place to be, it would be rather eviscerated by the human foot traffic.

We climb up and over to another area and enjoy the scenery here as well. The women all watch Dan as he attempts to go further up the river, but I have to admit, his navigational skills on the rocks and logs have nearly soaked us all. I look for alternative path with a guarantee of keeping dry and safe. He eventually slips and goes waist deep into the water. Coming back until he hits flat, dry ground, he takes off his boots and dumps the water out from them. We climb back up, and Sarah needs to stop and hang on to Ben. She’s about to pass out. I can’t actually tell if this is another prissy antic of hers, but I do feel bad that she’s ill. Once she catches her breath, we make our way back to the car, passing all of the tourists we were thankful to avoid.

Dan wants to carry on to another hike, but the weather is miserable. None of the women want to go, but Dan really digs it. We change shoes at the car and drive over to the other hike to assess. It’s too crappy and muddy, and only Dan is keen on leaving the warm, dry car to do it. Instead, Andrea mentions the Lane Party, and we all agree going to that food and beer festival would be much better.

We drive everyone home. Sarah concludes it would be best if she sat this one out, and Andrea and I will come over to meet Dan and Ashley in two hours. Lunch, a shower, some laundry and a bit of makeup later, we’re back out the door.

The four of us uber to Ashton Lane again where we come across a sea of people, friends, couples and families, decorated in face paint and cheerily downing beer and unusual Indian Mexican fusion nachos. There are magicians, stilt walkers, and a band that everyone has congregated around. Enthusiastic Canadian Dan gets as close to the band as possible and listens and claps with fervor. He claps and cheers even more feverishly when the sax player does his solo. The band plays covers from the 70s and 80s for a few hours. I’m having fun, but crowds and people constantly nudging me leave me anxious and irritated. I leer over the crowd to absorb my environment. Many people are already getting pissed, (piss drunk), and are shouting at nothing. I guess some young people need to do that. To get drunk and scream at the world. Andrea suggests margaritas and I agree to have one with her.

It turns out, the margarita machine broke, so all of the tequila is sitting at the bottom...Where the spout is, and the rest of the mix is floating at the top. They hand us our drinks, and I swear to drunk, I’m not God. These little Dixie cups of green slush must have 2-3 shots of tequila in them. Throughout the night, we’ve had about three and suddenly it’s the best night of our lives. Cheers to another bonding experience of a different variety with my cousin.

They’re doing free face paint, and in between our shared moments of drunk happy stupor, I remember the very hilarious joke in the movie, “The Hangover” where Stu gets a permanent Mike Tyson tattoo. So I ask the volunteer if she could paint the same for me. It’s actually brilliant, and the folks running the face paint booth says it’s the best one of the night. All of the young people love the joke, and all of the old people think, “That’s actually a really lovely tribal tattoo. Don’t wash that off tonight when you go home, you should keep it”.

This makes me laugh harder. The night carries on, and the bands change. I’m yelling a “Friends” reference to a bunch of guys carrying up a massive bar table up a flight of stairs and need to “PIVOT! PIVOT!” at the corner. We walk to Andrea’s school again and I take Harry Potter photos of Dan and Ashley casting spells, and we come back to the festival to sit with a guy who’s drunk Scottish accent is so thick, I literally can’t understand a bloody word.

We end the night getting dumplings, openly making fun of Dan and Ashley’s Canadian accents because Sarah is not around, and everyone finds it hilarious because it’s a joke, and uber home. We drink tea, eat leftovers and watch 21 Jumpstreet, laughing until we finally crash into sleep.

Edinburgh tomorrow!