I cover Glasgow like a goddamned mailman, putting my footprints across much of the city. The map Elaine gave me is useful, until I go off of it; it only covers Central Glasgow, and beyond its margins I'm relying on guesswork, the position of the sun, and the kindness of strangers to navigate.

Occasionally I'll spot broken glass on the sidewalk and have a sudden urge to pull back on the leashes, before realizing I am not at home taking my dogs out on one of their urban treks. I am alone, wandering, with no plan or responsibilities beyond occasionally looking for food, beverages or bathrooms. This is why I love going away.

In public places I listen in on as many conversations as I can. Not to spy; I just really like the way Scottish people talk, I could listen to their lilting and phrasing all day. But I'm never really sitting still long enough to hear much.

In retrospect I should have brought some type of audio recorder, but the only documentary devices I've got on me are cameras, and I take hundreds and hundreds of photos. I won't subject you to the entire stack, but here's another thirteen of 'em:

Elaine brings me to the Lighthouse, the Charles Rennie Mackintosh-
designed building housing Scotland's National Architecture and
Design Centre. It's where I shot the globular panorama in the
last entry. This is the view down to the street.



This is the spiral staircase you have to ascend
to reach the Lighthouse tower. It took all of my
willpower not to spit on the person at the bottom.



Whomever did the bathroom signage has a sense of humor.



Here in the UK, I am forced to put into practice a
certain life-saving technique I learned while living
in Japan, which is to turn your head to the right
before you step off a curb. It's a simple neuromuscular
task, but forget it once and they'll be peeling you off
the front of one of these red buses.



Glasgow's West End. Something about the block-by-block architecture
reminds me of Baltimore, but without the crack gangs.



Can you guess what this is?
If you said "trash can," you're wrong.
It's a "rubbish bin."



The bins have ashtrays on top, which I thought
was kinda neat, if disgusting to look at.



If I was telling you about this place over the
phone, you'd think I was saying "Super Jews."



Glasgow's full of these alleyways, which my
friend Eve would describe as "really rapey."



This West End liquor store on Byres Road amazed me--you
know those little tiny airplane-sized booze bottles?
They had hundreds of them here, but all of top-shelf Scotch!



They had plenty of full-sized bottles too, and it's a
good thing I don't live here; with the integrated ATM
machine, I'd constantly be broke and drunk. Brunk.



This is the Scotch room at the Odd Bins booze shop I told you
about in the last entry. The Robert Burns poem references
"usque-bae," the Gaelic word from which "whisky" is derived.
("Usque-bae" translates the same as "Aquavit" and "Eau de Vie;"
they all mean "Water of Life.") I take the poem to mean "It doesn't
matter how bad things get--I got a bottle of Scotch, bitches!"




A sign I saw on the train. I can't do all the work
around here so write your own caption for this one.

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Up next: Can't sleep in Glasgow

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