I love studying foreign train schedules. To someone whose usual form of rail transport is New York's shitbox subway system, the idea that you can go to a place where trains consistently arrive on a predetermined schedule is like someone telling you that there's a country where you can have super-orgasms--you're envious when you're not there, and elated when you are.

Thanks to a Glaswegian train schedule I've timed my morning perfectly: I get some work done at Elaine's, hop on a train at Pollokshaws East, and arrive in Central Station at the exact moment I see Tony strolling in from the airport bus area, fresh off a flight from New York. I don't explain to Tony that I've just had a mass transit super-orgasm; I just say "What's up man, good timing" then we head out of the station to get a coffee.

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Later that afternoon we're back at the station, this time waiting on Sandra's train from London. Recently my friends have been leaving New York in droves; Elaine was the first, Sandra, the second. I can't say I blame them for leaving as my home city is well past its prime. To me living in New York is like you've been dating a formerly hot cocktail waitress for way too long: She's gone to seed, the magic is totally gone and she cheats on you like nobody's business, but you stick with her because it's a comfortable lay and you're too goddamned tired to do any better for yourself.

But now I've got Elaine and Sandra in the same city, and with my fellow New Yorker Tony it'll be just like old times. With crew assembled, we can now prepare for the next part of the trip: A jaunt up to the Scottish Highlands.

"I prepared for the trip before I left," says Tony. I ask him what he means. "I watched Highlander." We then get into a discussion about how Christopher Lambert was legally blind. True story, look it up.

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Sometime between 9am and 6pm Elaine got a car. In the morning she left for work on foot, and in the evening, she pulls up in front of the building in her new vehicle, like when you were a kid and your dad got a raise.

Before I came to Scotland, Elaine had sent me an e-mail saying that she was going to buy a car for our trip to the Highlands and subsequent drive down to London. When she told me she was buying a Rover, I was beside myself. You see Land Rovers all over SoHo but I don't think I've ever ridden in one.

Then she told me it's not a "Land" Rover. Well, okay, Range Rover, whatever you want to call it.

No, no, no, said her e-mail. It's a "City Rover." A "City Rover Sprite," to be exact.

I Google Image it:

Well, whatever--a car is a car, right?

More importantly, it's stick and I get to drive it. I sold my five-speed Volkswagen in New York three, four years ago, and since then I've been itching to get back behind the wheel of a manual. Like all cars in the UK, the stick of Elaine's is on the left and the steering wheel's on the right, but the clutch is in the same spot, so I should be fine. I mean if blind-ass Christopher Lambert can swing a sword at Sean Connery, I can damn sure drive a car on the "other" side.

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The plan is to spend just one day and night in the Highlands, then the day after, we do Edinburgh. After that we pack Elaine's stuff in the car and drive to London.

It would be nice to spend more than a day in the Highlands, but alas...There Can Be Only One.

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"I'd like them to shtay longer too,
but they have to drive to London."

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Up Next: The Scoh'ish Highl'nds

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