I always take the taxi to the train station. It’s a 30-40 minute walk, a hike made less fun with the addition of heavy luggage, and a taxi just seems like an appropriate luxury. I never take taxis otherwise, and I somehow never feel guilty about coughing up the £5 fare to and from. It’s just completely worth it.

And the conversation is always delightful, an additional bonus. Taxi drivers around the world are always interesting, and I’ve experienced my fair share of bizarre incidents in America, Baltimore in particular. There was the ride home from the zoo when our rather unpleasant Middle-Eastern driver nearly got himself into an altercation with one of Pennsylvania’s Avenue’s resident thugs (the thug thought our taxi had cut him off, and therefor proceeded to drive into the lane beside ours, gesturing for our taxi driver to roll down his window. Our driver complied, only to grumble out his window, “I don’t listen to animals”); There was the African fellow fresh from Connecticut, asking us for directions to our destination (after complaining in detail about how he’d been stiffed his last taxi fare after a woman told him she just had to run into her apartment to grab her purse, only to never re-emerge).

UK taxi experiences seem to be much nicer.

They’re eventful in a cheerful, friendship-forging way. Leaving London, our driver was a cheerful African man, telling us about how he loved Americans (and his future goal to become a limousine driver in Las Vegas), how I looked like an artist, pointing out the bad neighborhoods from the good. Leaving for Rotterdam, the driver was a tune-enthused Scot with one pierced ear. He told me about his experiences at the Miami airport, and about how much he loved visiting the Florida Keys. Everything we discussed reminded him of a song, which he then proceeded to croon. He finished with a ditty about tulips (in honor of my Rotterdam destination), and was surprised when I admitted I’d never heard it before.

Today I found myself with another friendly Scot, an older man with white hair and a thick accent that I found myself (surprisingly) easily able to understand. He asked where I’d been (after we discussed the fact that my apartment address doesn’t really exist – Palmerston Place isn’t anything, and I always have to explain that it’s a little driveway that hangs off Kelvinhaugh Street), where I was from, and gushed about what a nice people the Yanks were. He said we were friendly and generous, and that it wasn’t our fault Bush is mad. He told me I was welcome back in Scotland any time, and that I should bring over some more nice American lassies for the Scottish lads. When I told him I’d been visiting friends in Ireland he was immediately interested. I told him they lived near Galway, and he asked if I’d been to any of the islands of the West coast of Ireland. I told him regrettably that I hadn’t, and he went on to demand that I try my best to make it out to Achill Island, where his father had grown up. He told me that even though his father’s died, he still goes out to Achill every year and that it is the most beautiful place in the world. He gave me his last name (which I’ve quickly forgotten), explaining that most of the people that live there go by the same surname. He reminisced about the fact that his father was forced to travel over to Scotland for work, that he’d gone to London with his 4 brothers and had been the only one to travel North. “Yah, cen’ya believe it? All mah cousins are bloody English!”
He thanked me for informing him of the location of Palmerston place, and told me now he’d definitely remember. I told him we’d probably meet in Achill sometime, and he told me I’d definitely remember his ugly face. He said to take care, that he’d buy me a pint of Guinness in Ireland sometime.

I really like being back in Scotland, chatting with friendly older Scots. It’s funny, even though I’ve not become so ingrained in the community here, I really kind of feel like it’s home sometimes.