While visiting my aunt and uncle in London this summer, Eric and I took a quick weekend voyage up to Edinburgh. Starting and ending with a train ride that made all my Potter dreams come true (Harry and Beatrix), it was magically lush, misty, green, and everything a twenty-something year old could ever hope for. Holding hands with strangers at a bagpipe tattoo while all swaying back and forth and singing "Auld Lang Syne" changes a person, I am telling you.
Anyway, on friday morning, we woke up early in London, slept on the train, and then hit the ground running once we pulled up to the Waverly train station, determined to make the most of our three days there. I had decided before our Europe trip that I would NOT wear sneakers/chacos/tevas. I believe my thought process was: Please. A little sole discomfort means NOTHING to this well-seasoned traveller. Less than three hours into walking around Edinburgh in my salt water sandals (might as well have been pieces of cardboard), lugging around my weekend bag, my feet were red, swollen and I am pretty sure throbbing so much that there was a visible pulse in them.
Fast forward two hours and I was walking around in a brand spanking new pair of Birkenstocks, which isn't quite so bad as chacos, seeing as they're all the rage in Europe and Steve Madden has a knockoff version.
However, I was moaning and groaning because they were so awkwardly uncomfortable and my feet were still swollen and pounding like a 2 a.m. rave. Eric decided for the both of us that we should call it a night and hailed a taxi to take us to our on-the-edge-of-Edinburgh apartment for the weekend, which we had strategically booked because it was much cheaper than the rooms right in town. (By the way, I am now devoted to Airbnb.com. It is the cheapest way to bunk for sure.)
I showed the taxi driver the address our host had given us. He drove us out to the suburbs of Edinburgh and then kept driving, driving, driving. By this time, it was a little dark and the road we were on was empty in a creepy middle-of-nowhere-where-are-you-taking-us kind of way. We finally turned into an apartment complex--one that you had to drive for half a mile off the road to even get to.
The taxi driver said "OK, here you go."
I said, "which apartment is it?"
He said, "I don't know. The address doesn't say."
Me, "that number isn't the apartment number???"
Him, "noooo...that's the zip code."
He drove off, leaving me in a mild panic, in front of a massive apartment complex, at dusk, many miles away from the city center or any other building in site for that matter, and with no way to call our host. My uncle had given us a cell phone for the weekend that has a data plan, but it was conveniently dead. Eric meandered and I waddled over to one of the apartment buildings and peered inside to see an array of wall outlets where we could charge Uncle Jim's phone and call our host. We tugged on the door. Locked.
Eric started ringing telecoms and all but begged tenants to let us in--perfect strangers with melon sized feet--so we could charge our phone. Clearly, clearly every person thought he was a serial killer and hung up in fright.
To this day, Eric will tell you that it was NO big deal. We were so fine. I submit we were not fine. We were miles away from anything, standing in front of a hundred apartments, any of which could be ours, with a dead phone. OK, now that I write it out, I can see it for what it really was--a minor glitch. But at the time, we were not going to be alright, OH NO WE WERE NOT.
We were not going to find her.
We were going to have to sleep on the lawn.
We would be freezing and hungry.
OUR TRIP WAS RUINED.
It's possible that all of the blood in my body had rushed to my swollen feet and therefore, I could not think a single rational thought, so I sunk to the lawn and start crying while Eric yelled to some drunk girls on a patio, asking if they knew of an "Alina" who has some sort of Russian or Ukrainian last name that he couldn't remember.
Eric basically picked me up off the ground and dragged me out to the street where we lugged all of our stuff down the empty, dark street. Luckily, after 30 minutes of walking (Eric will tell you it was five) and a few tears, we saw a gas station. I shuffled through the door and literally flung my bags and myself on the floor next to the door where I could plug our phone into an outlet right behind the ice cream bar freezer.
Honestly, no shame, just me flinging myself on a dirty gas station floor.
I sat there waiting for the phone to turn on and an old man walked through the door, looked down at me, and moved along. I cannot even bear to imagine the sight: a twenty-something American girl, wearing a blouse and Birkenstocks, nursing her tender feet, while sitting on a gas station floor with several bags and a coat haphazardly strewn about her. I want to say "Oh, honey" to this girl and pity her, but I WAS her.
Anyway, a few minutes later, this same old man came up to me, reached his hand out to grab mine, smiled, and said in the most genuinely sincere, thoughtful and tender voice, " God bless you." Then he handed me a can of salt and vinegar Pringles that he had just purchased, squeezed my hand, and made for the door.
I managed a lumpy thank you through watery eyes and when he left, I had to compose myself for a minute before I could call our host to get her apartment number. I picked myself up off the floor and we headed back the way we came.
I hate salt and vinegar Pringles so Eric munched on them while he bounced down the road. Eric thinks the Pringle man was drunk, but I am positive he was 100% sober and just saw a girl in need of a little comfort. It's not like we were in a dire situation--I was literally one minute away from talking to Alina on the phone--but it was one of those small, sweet, compassionate moments that makes you feel like your burden (no matter how ridiculous) has been lifted off your shoulders a bit because people are generally kind and understanding. And for some reason, that's hugely comforting. I will honestly always remember that small act of kindness, even though he probably has already forgotten.
We ended up finding the apartment and all was well. Alina, our host, happens to play the harp for a living and apologized profusely for practicing while we fell asleep. It was absolute heaven. So was taking off my Birks.
Side note: I now love my Birkenstocks to no end. Every time I put them on after a long day of work, I feel like this:
