A little fall of rain

Two days of low spirits is nowhere near long enough to steer me away from a chosen course of action. Ill-advised uber rides and a Netflix binge? Sure. But let’s be honest about something. I’m a Jarocki: we’re an inherently stubborn breed. If two days were going to wreck this trip, I would have been home in those first rainy days trapped in my lair in France with nothing but cheese and Grey’s Anatomy for my friends.

Though I was ready to move on, Edinburgh hadn’t had its last with me yet. My spirits were buoyed by Magda, the car rental agent. “Do you have Polish family?” she asked, “I recognize your last name.” For those of you with recognizable or even simply pronounceable last names, you won’t understand how significant a moment this was. Whenever I give my last name, I say “Jarocki, with a J,” and whenever anyone asks for my last name, I just start spelling it. Forget people pronouncing it unaided, not going to happen. This is my normal, and I don’t remark upon it any more than I remark upon tying my shoes. So when for the first time in my life someone recognized my last name it was that which was remarkable. She was also quite pleasant, giving me suggestions of where to visit. I kept the conversation going for as long as possible because the blend of the Scottish and Polish accents was so intriguing. I hadn't often thought about the fact that when someone learns a new language, it is marked not only by the accent of their native dialect, but also by that of the region in which they learn it, and very distinctively so.

On this subject, I find that being in Scotland is a similar linguistic experience for me as being in France. When someone is speaking directly to me, I understand between 90 and 98% of what is said, and can infer the rest. When I am not a part of the conversation and lack context, however, if I don’t focus a particular effort, it is just background noise. And when I do make an effort, my success rate is still alarmingly low. I’ve developed a game, and before you say anything, I am aware of how creepy it is, I just don’t care.

When I’m out, I pace/position myself so I am within earshot of a conversation. If I understand immediately, I move on, I’m not actually interested in the content. Here’s the fun – I first have to discern if it is English, and second I attempt to understand it. It took a full three minutes in the souvenir shop before I was sure that English wasn’t the language being spoken. This all started when I was wandering around Edinburgh and inadvertently adopted the pace of the couple in front of me. We walked the same path for about half a mile and I was able to catch maybe 5-10% of what they said. Its an odd sensation to be unable to comprehend your native tongue.

Back to Magda, however. Despite her somewhat boosting my spirits, I also ended up paying roughly $200 more for the car than the initial estimate. So in the way of spirit-boosting, kind of a wash. Granted, I did agree to upgrade to the diesel engine, but they forgot to mention the daily surcharge and 20% tax in addition to the upgrade price. To put it plainly: I was bamboozled. I was ready to be on my way, but I couldn’t even get the car started. Having to go ask Chris how to simply turn over the engine did not seem like an auspicious start to the next leg of my Scotland adventure. Turns out, if I had just moved the steering wheel a bit, all would have been well.

I had a few tense moments getting out of Edinburgh. I will admit that adjusting to driving on the left side of the road combined with learning to drive a manual transmission left-handed and both of these interspersed with heavily trafficked roundabouts caused a few expletives to slip out. Soon however, I was comfortable with the situation, and it began to seem odd considering the inverse. It was somewhat astounding that I could so easily transform a skill with certain ingrained habits of a dozen years in a matter of minutes. To me, it speaks volumes of the amazing adaptability of the human mind, or it means that my pursuit of ambidexterity which began in 1998 has actually paid off with practical application. I can’t be sure.

In either case, I drove north, my spirits rising commensurately with each mile I put between Edinburgh and me. You know that feeling when you get really close to something you want, but don’t achieve it and it makes it even more disappointing - like waiting in a long line for something, and it being closed, sold out, or full by the time you get there? I think that was Edinburgh for me. Somewhere deep inside of me, I knew it was simply an in-between, a place-holder. Close, but insufficient.

My heart, you see, was made for the Highlands.

These stories, however, must wait for another day. I leave you only with the knowledge that I am well and alive, and fully so.

The Brevity Report:

• Left Edinburgh for the Highlands