Ready to leave the blighted, festering cesspool that Scotland refers to as “Glasgow” in our dust, we left our hotel at about 7am. We knew the closest Airport shuttle stop was about a block and a half away, and that the shuttles made a pick-up every 15 minutes, but that didn’t stop us from running like crazy to catch the bus that crossed our path on the way to the stop.
We were crossing the street at the North East corner of George Square (the far corner in this photo) when the bus passed us, and we had to get to the south west corner.
We hauled asses, luggage, and backpacks all the way over to the far side of the square just as the bus turned the south east corner and stopped to pick up the waiting passengers on the other side of the street. Just as we were about to admit defeat, we heard sirens in the distance and all the traffic stopped. We’d only have one chance to make it to the airport shuttle (at this point completely forgetting that another shuttle would be by in 10 minutes) and to take that chance called for us to dash across the street in front of the fire engine that was barrelling up the road, lights flashing, siren blaring, firefighters bagpiping. (All Scottish people take bagpipes everywhere. Honest.) I made a dash for the bus at the same time as an on-foot commuter, and we both made it across safely. Mrs. ACW, on the other hand, hesitated for just a moment, and almost got flattened. (And in retrospect, that would have been the nicest we’d been treated in Glasgow.) I managed to stall the bus driver by counting out the fare like I was retarded, and a few moments later Mrs. ACW boarded the bus safely.
Not content with a calm, stress-free ride to the airport, Mrs. ACW was sure that we had boarded a bus to the wrong airport, and threw an itty-bitty hissy fit when I refused to dig through my luggage to find our itinerary in order to confirm her suspicions. As if the bus driver was going to a) turn the bus around for our benefit, ignoring all the other passengers, or b) let us off on the side of the highway to slowly trudge back towards the infectious waste-pile of Glasgow.
Luckily, it was a moot hissy-fit, because we had in fact gone to the correct airport, just as I had been saying. And for the record, I never received an apology for bearing the brunt of that pointless hissy-fit. (Any bets on when we’re getting divorced? I hear the big money is on “Next Week”.)
We queued for our tickets for three quarters of an hour, and having a pocket full of shrapnel left to spend, we gorged ourselves on oddly named candybars (Fizzle!, Twist, Gobulisciousirishbabiesyummykins, etc.) in the airport.
We chose to sleep on the plane rather than subject ourselves to “The Shaggy Dog” or “Everybody Loves Raymond”, and when we woke up, we were in Iceland. And we had a four-hour layover.
Lucky for us, Iceland Air realized that a four hour layover is about as stimulating as the craptastic programming on their flights, so they made an announcement that we could go on a whale-watching trip courtesy of their airline. So we got off the plane, went through customs, and arrived at the appointed spot in the airport to catch the shuttle for the whale-watching tour. The tour organizers asked if we had vouchers. Of course not! Iceland Air had failed to mention that we needed them! Hurray!
Rather than going back through customs, we decided that we’d just pay the 800 billion kronors (1 million kronors = a bag of turnips) and go on the tour. Upon exiting the warmth of the airport, Mrs. ACW mentioned how cold it was outside, and I remarked, “In Iceland, no less.” She didn’t think I was very funny.
A quick bus ride, and we were at the port. The whale-watching boat was called the “Moby Dick” which either means that the tour company was not without a sense of irony, or their English wasn’t so great.
At this point it should be mentioned that I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt, and Mrs. ACW was sensibly wearing jeans… and a t-shirt. Lucky for us they had water-proof pants and coats in circus-freak sizes. I was wearing XXXXL pants and a Small raincoat. It’s like my bottom half was “DJ Longshoreman” and my top half was a child molester. As we were adding layers, the ship pulled away from the port and we started a smooth, uneventful trip toward the Atlantic.
Then for the next two hours the captain tried to execute a barrel-roll. And no matter how many times the tour guide called out “one o’clock” or “ten o’clock” to tell us which way to look to see whales, all I ever saw was the fin of a minke whale. Mrs. ACW only saw a blowhole discharge. (There’s a joke in there somewhere.) By the time we made it back to port Mrs. ACW was a shade of green normally reserved for pea-soup, we were both very very cold, and we were feeling like we had been ripped off.
And yet, it was still better than Glasgow.
Yay! glad to be hearing about Scotland finally;) You see anyone from the Pringle clan?
That does not count as a honeymoon post!!! Very amusing, though.
i went on a whalewatch once and i looked over the eadge of the boat and got blowholed on.
Well, until further honeymoon posts, it was better than nothing. Glad to hear about the somewhat-hissy! I’m suprised though, Mrs. ACW didn’t strike me as a hissy throwing kinda gal when I met her.
And really, I’d keep mum about the whole divorce thing…I hear Mrs. ACW reads this blog, friend :-)
Wow! I’m going to have to squeeze Glasgow into my England trip this fall! Can you recommend some sites to visit?
Kendra - Blowholed on? Sorry, but that sounds hilarious.
Did you try a deep fried Mars Bar (the UK equivalent of a Milky Way)? It’s what those miserable haggis munchers consider haute cuisine.
I’m still trying to visually imagine your “tapered” outfit….hahahahaha
Woah, ACW!! Choose your battles or you will be divorced “Next Week”. We don’t always apologize. Just because it was the right bus doesn’t mean you’re right in the eyes of a woman. ;)
Dude- I’m fucking *in* Iceland. ‘course, I don’t guess you have my Icelandic cell number, do you? Still, Fate’s a slutty, dirty little whore who likes to be spanked with a hairbrush.
I am from Iceland and I’ve NEVER been on a wale watch, neither has my sister, my father or any of my friends…You have my phone number why the F…didn’t you call. In Iceland you go to PUBS not Boats. F…ing foreigners.
Neckbone and Neckbone’s wife know what they’re talking about! Take a second honeymoon in Iceland with them and GO TO PUBS instead!
ACW, I am right now sitting at a computer in an internet cafe in Edinburgh, wondering if WE’LL get the whale-watching trip during the 4-hour layover we have in Keflavik on Tuesday on our way home, leaving out of the Glasgow airport after 3 days there, which will apparently be awful. Honestly, I think Edinburgh is nice, and I’m madly in love with the Scottish Highlands, but I’m not looking forward to Glasgow all of a sudden.
Feel free to send me an email to let me know what to see in Glasgow that isn’t stupid…we leave Edinburgh tomorrow, headed there, and I’m a loss for what to do with our three days there…
“Mrs. ACW only saw a blowhole discharge.”
Of course she did.
This was your honeymoon.
Welcome back.
You stayed in the wrong part of Glasgow, my friend! I love it here! Everyone has been wonderfully nice to us, and we’ve been busy with fun things to do. When my computer wasn’t working in this place a few minutes ago, a guy behind the counter offered to let me use his! I feel bad now that you didn’t have a very good time here. :(
By the way, I do wonder if we’ll get the offer of the whale-watching trip on Tuesday during our 4-hour layover in Iceland…since now I’ll know what to expect, and to remind them of the vouchers! HA!
FYI - The point is not whether you were right or wrong about the bus. The fact is that you were supposed to be sweet enough to listen to her concerns and dig out the itinerary :).
Sorry you didn’t get to see more on the whale-watching trip, but you did get to see more than I did on mine. I went on one during the 4+ years I lived in San Diego. Trip started out great, but by the we hit the open sea, all I was seeing was the inside cabin, staring at the trash can near the counter from under the table (literally) wondering if I would be able to make it there should “something” happen.
Tarzan had gone on whale-watching trips before and had not gotten sick before, though I think he was a little queasy this time. He did try to make me feel better by telling me that someone outside was upchucking over the side.