So, I know I haven't been the best blogger. It's just... ever since I lost my last entry, the one that finally made me just switch here, I've been so uninspired. It was the long, intricate dialog that I spend so much time and effort on. I had to THINK about it, man! And then my blog site goes and deletes it... it's not good for morale.

While I can't recreate the dialog, nor do I have the energy at the moment to do so, I will go ahead and just describe, in layman's terms, what I had written.

So there we were (as any good story should start out), we had just returned from a sojourn to the US, and we stumble blindly into a crowded, pushy, outright crazy atmosphere of music and comedy and literature and dancing and theater and, of course, traditional Scottish ales. It's festival season in Edinburgh, and it's just as wild, even in this "preview" time, as everyone said it would be. It's fun to think that every hotel and hostel room in the city is currently sold out, and we live just steps away.

So we head down to the Grassmarket, a lowly market area below the Castle that, incidentally, was also used as a public arena for hangings. You know, but your wheat, watch the show, all at once. No inconvenience necessary. But today, it's a thriving scene of bars and students and construction (for the much lamented tram system, which I have plenty to say about at another date). And last Saturday, it was the thriving scene of the Edinburgh Jazz and Blues Festival opening day celebrations, meaning a short parade followed by the filling up of the streets to catch glimpses of any acts you might want to see for real (and for mucho pounds) later. Me being a student, "free" is always a plus, so we decided to make a day of it.This dancer, part of a New Orleans-style marching Big Band, was tapping her foot with impatience at her companions, who were taking their time packing up. I guess she had somewhere to go.


These are the lamps that guide you to the Last Drop, cleverly named for the gallows that graced the space right outside the front door.

This is what the crowd looked like. Not as push-and-shove as New Year's, probably due to the amount of mature adults mulling around.

Regardless, I had found a nice bar that had students specials: 1.95 students beers. This being approximately $3 cheaper than any other beer around, I quickly pounced on the opportunity. Now here's the part where I got all poetic and teary-eyed and existential, and where I haven't the muster to do so again.

I met this guy, while waiting to order my drinks. An older gentlemen, who looked older in that way that fishermen look older, leathered and weathered and white. He made doubly sure that I was served in proper order, and then stuck around to chat. He seemed very concerned that I be having a good time here, and made sure that I was enjoying the festival and my student-friendly beer. He asked where I was from, and when I answered the States, followed by an unsure "Montana" and a questioning raised eyebrow (because really, most people I have met have no concept that there are people that live in the 3000 miles between New York and LA, or even that there ARE 3000 miles between New York and LA), I got an enthusiastic "Ahhh Big Sky Country! Beautiful!" and a raised beer glass in a toast to how awesome I am.

He asked where, but was unfamiliar with Gardiner, though knew of Yellowstone. "Ah I never got down that way. But I have been to all the important battlefields!"

At this moment Jonmikel, looking dully concerned, for I had been waiting in line at this crowded little bar for nigh on 20 minutes, strode in and joined us. "This guys here, he's from Montana, too, and he's a big battlefield guy!" I reached out and patted my companion on the chest.

My new friend barrel laughed in welcome, and the two of them proceeded to speak in tongues about the implications of new research and what a shame it was that no one really survived to write or rewrite history. Something was said about switching plane tickets with him, and we could live in his house while he visited Montana again, and then it suddenly came out that he was, in fact, a card-carrying member of the Custer Association of the United Kingdom. "There were a lot of our boys over there, you know."

After a few more minutes of this conversation, we decided that fresh air was called for and took our leave. I never did catch his name...

Look for a new and improved version of this lively story to come out in my book of travel stories... coming soon... ish.