Day Nine, Ten, Eleven
Alrighty.
So Saturday and Sunday I visited cathedrals and graveyards. It didn't seem right, taking pictures of them. Disrespect or something like that. Although, if you want to google "Glasgow Cathedral" and "Glasgow Necropolis" you'll find plenty of pictures there.
At a suggestion, I went to one of the local cathedrals (there are more 19th century gothic cathedrals than you can swing a cat at) to hear one of their services. I went to a choral-led service. The music was superb, the building is custom built for those tones and voices. Content wise, it was different than I'm used to, but honestly I was more focused on the music and the echoes of the voices from the stone around me.
This morning (Monday) I caught a cab at 4:30 in the morning to the airport. This Scottish cabbie was far more friendly and helpful. Although every time I get into a black cab I think of the BBC Sherlock episode.
FYI, Glasgow airport is a maze. The drop off point is hidden around a corner, and it's the second entrance (first entrance is arrivals). When you walk in, there's a bunch of check in counters that at the time were dark. You take a right and go up the escalator, take another right to security, go through security (where it's the most lax I've ever seen, although the pen I keep wearing in my hair seems to cause a consistent problem), then go down a flight of STAIRS. That's right, stairs. No moving sidewalks, no escalators, no ramps. Stairs.
So you carry your luggage down the flight of stairs and suddenly you're in a department store. No joke. It's like you took a wrong turn and walked into a Dillards. You follow the black-tiled road through the maze of shelves and perfumes and traps. When you break free of the department store, you go through another set of doors and SURPRISE you're in a mall causeway. There's an ATM station, a handful of touristy shops (which I poked around in) and a grocery store. Then you take a ramp up to this large sitting area. To the right is gates 1-26, to the left 27-35.
Only, my flight gate wasn't posted until 15 minutes before the gate closed.
I don't know why they do this, but I guess it's crowd control.
As soon as the gate was posted, half of us sitting in the area leaped up and forged down this tunnel. Okay, I guess that makes sense, right? Wrong. All of us are funneled down this series of hallways and bridges (seriously it was a mile to the gates) that frankly reminded me of cattle being herded. Then people start peeling off to go to different gates. We go down another flight of STAIRS. Then we pass the baggage claim. I keep following the signs to my departure date.
After weaving my way through the length and breadth of this airport, I get onto the departure gate. As soon as I sit down, they begin priority boarding. So I look for the plane, and I realize that the departure gate is on the bottom floor. We're taking the stairs up to the plane.
I finally get boarded and it was the emptiest flight that I've been on yet. Of course, it was a 7 AM flight to Belfast. It was the shortest flight too, only half an hour. We were cruising at proper altitude for 2 songs length. Seriously. We got up to cruising altitude, I put in my headphones when the seat belt light turned off. Two songs later, the pilot's voice comes over the intercom and says "Prepare for decent into Belfast."
So yeah, it was a short flight.
Then I get into Belfast. This airport makes sense. I'm in and out in a matter of minutes. Standing right there outside of Arrivals is a friendly taxi man. I ask him if his service will take me to Belfast. He smiled and said "We can take you anywhere you want to go."
The Irish are far more friendly than the Scots.
He pointed me to a cab where I jumped in. It was a fancy cab, no plexiglass between passenger and driver. The cabbie smiled and said "Good Mornin'" and we were off. We had a very good discussion, where to eat in Belfast, what to see, and politics.
The interesting thing about Belfast is that nobody really thinks of it as a warzone.
It's in the West! It's part of the British Empire! No current war zones there!
Wrong. There was severe conflict until 1998, and only a few years ago there were protests in the neighborhoods. My cabbie took a few detours and we went through the Shankill neighborhood, which he explained is still racked with high unemployment and chronic drinking. We drove down a road with closed down shops and murals everywhere. He said on one side is Catholic, the other side is Protestant, and tensions escalate when the other side protests down that road.
He explained that it's a little better now. There are some mixed marriages, which wouldn't have happened even ten years ago. If a Protestant invited a Catholic to live in his neighborhood, the Catholic would be nervous and scared about living there. If a Catholic invited a Protestant to live in his neighborhood, it would be a little less scary.
We passed memorials and "Remember so-and-so, who was murdered here" wreaths and signs. There were plenty of fenced off empty lots. As we drove through the city center, he explained that the Europa Hotel is the most bombed hotel in all the world.
Think about that. Just stop and think.
Not a hotel in the middle east. Not a hotel in Egypt or Israel or Syria.
Ireland. A hotel in the center of Northern Ireland's capital is the most bombed hotel in the whole world.
True to Irish spirit though, the structure is still sound. The stone work is sturdy and it holds its own among the skyscrapers around it. The only damage was superficial, glass and wood and things. If that doesn't demonstrate the Irish soul, I don't know what does.
So we drove on and I arrived at my destination. It's a lovely home owned by a lady named Joanna. Absolutely lovely house. I want one like hers. Three floors, a lovely kitchen and dining area, just really wonderful. She is very friendly and has a wealth of stories to tell. She was a world traveler too before she settled down with a family, and so her stories are incredible. She also listens very well.
Doesn't eat carbs though. So. Nobody's perfect.
Since I got to my "hotel" at 9 AM and got settled in, I went out for a stroll and came upon the botanical gardens. I love gardens, the green and the trees and the flowers. Since it's fall, it's got the aroma of fresh cut grass and moldy leaves, which is very alluring. They've got lots of paths to wander and even a greenhouse.
Inside the greenhouse, they sorted the plants by "exotic" and "familiar" for the kids. On one side of the building is familiar hot and cold climate plants, and on the other is shelves and pots filled with plants from different eco systems.
Look what I found in the "exotic" section.
Eventually I got hungry and cold (remember, it's about a 50 degree temperature difference than what my body's used to back home) and headed back. Across the street from my room is an Asian market.
It's kinda funny that the place I feel most at home is an Asian market instead of countries that speak my same language.
So I picked up some food and brought it back. I made some lunch, talked to Joanna some more, then started typing this up. Tomorrow I head to the Giant's Causeway.
Til Next Time,
Nita Morgan
So Saturday and Sunday I visited cathedrals and graveyards. It didn't seem right, taking pictures of them. Disrespect or something like that. Although, if you want to google "Glasgow Cathedral" and "Glasgow Necropolis" you'll find plenty of pictures there.
At a suggestion, I went to one of the local cathedrals (there are more 19th century gothic cathedrals than you can swing a cat at) to hear one of their services. I went to a choral-led service. The music was superb, the building is custom built for those tones and voices. Content wise, it was different than I'm used to, but honestly I was more focused on the music and the echoes of the voices from the stone around me.
This morning (Monday) I caught a cab at 4:30 in the morning to the airport. This Scottish cabbie was far more friendly and helpful. Although every time I get into a black cab I think of the BBC Sherlock episode.
FYI, Glasgow airport is a maze. The drop off point is hidden around a corner, and it's the second entrance (first entrance is arrivals). When you walk in, there's a bunch of check in counters that at the time were dark. You take a right and go up the escalator, take another right to security, go through security (where it's the most lax I've ever seen, although the pen I keep wearing in my hair seems to cause a consistent problem), then go down a flight of STAIRS. That's right, stairs. No moving sidewalks, no escalators, no ramps. Stairs.
So you carry your luggage down the flight of stairs and suddenly you're in a department store. No joke. It's like you took a wrong turn and walked into a Dillards. You follow the black-tiled road through the maze of shelves and perfumes and traps. When you break free of the department store, you go through another set of doors and SURPRISE you're in a mall causeway. There's an ATM station, a handful of touristy shops (which I poked around in) and a grocery store. Then you take a ramp up to this large sitting area. To the right is gates 1-26, to the left 27-35.
Only, my flight gate wasn't posted until 15 minutes before the gate closed.
I don't know why they do this, but I guess it's crowd control.
As soon as the gate was posted, half of us sitting in the area leaped up and forged down this tunnel. Okay, I guess that makes sense, right? Wrong. All of us are funneled down this series of hallways and bridges (seriously it was a mile to the gates) that frankly reminded me of cattle being herded. Then people start peeling off to go to different gates. We go down another flight of STAIRS. Then we pass the baggage claim. I keep following the signs to my departure date.
After weaving my way through the length and breadth of this airport, I get onto the departure gate. As soon as I sit down, they begin priority boarding. So I look for the plane, and I realize that the departure gate is on the bottom floor. We're taking the stairs up to the plane.
I finally get boarded and it was the emptiest flight that I've been on yet. Of course, it was a 7 AM flight to Belfast. It was the shortest flight too, only half an hour. We were cruising at proper altitude for 2 songs length. Seriously. We got up to cruising altitude, I put in my headphones when the seat belt light turned off. Two songs later, the pilot's voice comes over the intercom and says "Prepare for decent into Belfast."
So yeah, it was a short flight.
Then I get into Belfast. This airport makes sense. I'm in and out in a matter of minutes. Standing right there outside of Arrivals is a friendly taxi man. I ask him if his service will take me to Belfast. He smiled and said "We can take you anywhere you want to go."
The Irish are far more friendly than the Scots.
He pointed me to a cab where I jumped in. It was a fancy cab, no plexiglass between passenger and driver. The cabbie smiled and said "Good Mornin'" and we were off. We had a very good discussion, where to eat in Belfast, what to see, and politics.
The interesting thing about Belfast is that nobody really thinks of it as a warzone.
It's in the West! It's part of the British Empire! No current war zones there!
Wrong. There was severe conflict until 1998, and only a few years ago there were protests in the neighborhoods. My cabbie took a few detours and we went through the Shankill neighborhood, which he explained is still racked with high unemployment and chronic drinking. We drove down a road with closed down shops and murals everywhere. He said on one side is Catholic, the other side is Protestant, and tensions escalate when the other side protests down that road.
He explained that it's a little better now. There are some mixed marriages, which wouldn't have happened even ten years ago. If a Protestant invited a Catholic to live in his neighborhood, the Catholic would be nervous and scared about living there. If a Catholic invited a Protestant to live in his neighborhood, it would be a little less scary.
We passed memorials and "Remember so-and-so, who was murdered here" wreaths and signs. There were plenty of fenced off empty lots. As we drove through the city center, he explained that the Europa Hotel is the most bombed hotel in all the world.
Think about that. Just stop and think.
Not a hotel in the middle east. Not a hotel in Egypt or Israel or Syria.
Ireland. A hotel in the center of Northern Ireland's capital is the most bombed hotel in the whole world.
True to Irish spirit though, the structure is still sound. The stone work is sturdy and it holds its own among the skyscrapers around it. The only damage was superficial, glass and wood and things. If that doesn't demonstrate the Irish soul, I don't know what does.
So we drove on and I arrived at my destination. It's a lovely home owned by a lady named Joanna. Absolutely lovely house. I want one like hers. Three floors, a lovely kitchen and dining area, just really wonderful. She is very friendly and has a wealth of stories to tell. She was a world traveler too before she settled down with a family, and so her stories are incredible. She also listens very well.
Doesn't eat carbs though. So. Nobody's perfect.
Since I got to my "hotel" at 9 AM and got settled in, I went out for a stroll and came upon the botanical gardens. I love gardens, the green and the trees and the flowers. Since it's fall, it's got the aroma of fresh cut grass and moldy leaves, which is very alluring. They've got lots of paths to wander and even a greenhouse.
Look what I found in the "exotic" section.
Eventually I got hungry and cold (remember, it's about a 50 degree temperature difference than what my body's used to back home) and headed back. Across the street from my room is an Asian market.
It's kinda funny that the place I feel most at home is an Asian market instead of countries that speak my same language.
So I picked up some food and brought it back. I made some lunch, talked to Joanna some more, then started typing this up. Tomorrow I head to the Giant's Causeway.
Til Next Time,
Nita Morgan
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