I know when this year got wrapped around the axle. It was that culture war over a danged chicken sandwich.
That’s when this year went off the rails.
According to this itinerary, the one on this Excel spreadsheet on my computer monitor, had it not been for that chicken sandwich and all that followed, we would be leaving Edinburgh for Inverness today.
Inverness is about a three-hour drive up the A9 via the M90. With no goal other than to arrive in Inverness by bed time, we would have had ample time for stops at Aviemore (starred recommendation from my daughter), Dalwhinnie (a favored Scotch distillery) and a side-trip into the Tay Forest for a visit to Aberfeldy (another of my favorite distilleries).
According to this itinerary, which I carefully researched late last year, at this point in our vacation, we would have already spent three days in Edinburgh with two solid weeks remaining to explore pre-Cambrian ruins, castles, castle ruins, fairy rings, museums, more castle ruins, music and food festivals, monster hide-outs, wizard-ish steam trains and Highland games.
Plus the occasional Scotch distillery. I hear they have a couple-six of those in Scotland and figured we might run across one or two of them on our travels. Particularly if we followed the River Spey out of the Caringorms and down to the North Sea. A target-rich environment, I understand.
The other daughter and her husband are living in Edinburgh this year, and a chunk of the next, working on a big project — a project which, oddly enough, is related to Scotch. They work for a company that, among other creative endeavors, designs and builds big, immersive, experiential museums. One of the big brands over there decided they need a big, immersive, experiential museum to celebrate their 100th year distilling and blending fine Scotch.
But, that’s beside the point. The point is/was that, had the world continued to spin as it had before the chicken sandwich wars (and all that followed), we would — today — be exploring the Scottish Highlands with our kids.
But, late 2019 seems a couple of decades ago. It’s hard to even imagine …
Even after everything hit the fan, and the sandwich wars moved to an effort to burn Australia to the bedrock then devolved into a hellish pandemic, we still entertained hopes that we would be able to travel by July. Maybe, we thought, the pandemic would recede enough to allow a window for international travel.
We’ve kept up with travel restrictions and the fortunes of the airline industry, because we booked and paid for our tickets soon after we nearly went to war with Iran in January (remember that?).
Please, let this mess calm down so we can take our vacation, we thought. But, no. We got complacent. We socialized. We couldn’t be bothered to wear a mask. We ignored all the advice the experts preached about how to slow the spread, flatten the curve and keep a lid on this thing so we could, eventually (by July? Please??) get a semblance of our lives back.
(“This is why I hate group projects!” my wife shouted as she read proof on this. “Stoopid people!”)
I even went so far as to contact the Scottish Visitors Bureau to see what guidance they had. The response was painfully polite but equally blunt. Please don’t plan to visit Scotland at this time, you filthy American. Okay, I’m paraphrasing but I can read between the lines.
Last week, about 36 hours before we were to board our flight out of Austin, we cancelled. Got a voucher we hope to use in March.
The hope here is that things will be better by then. Please, let it all be better by March!
Save lives. Save vacations. Wear your mask!
(With a tip of the hat to Ken Cooke.)
The Ragged Edge 