Chapter 2
Lesson 2: When abroad, always ask pertinent questions about tipping culture before you hand over your Monopoly money.
Bridget Jones Tally:
vending machine lattes in bloodstream—6
British pounds sterling in wallet—350
minutes left before the world ends—28
I filled out some paperwork; received phone numbers and instructions; hugged my suitcase around its middle like an awkward,
overweight toddler; and heaved it to the floor with a thud, one wheel gone altogether, the other spinning at a comedic angle.
Of course.
I missed the tram and didn’t have much choice but to shell out for a taxi, so I jumped into the nearest one and instructed
the driver to put his foot down.
I had a headache, and each time it throbbed I saw that detestable little smirk and wished I had slapped it right off his stupid
Scottish face. I imagined all the cutting things I might have said if only the glass doors had taken a little longer to close.
At least I would never have to see him again. Thank God for that. I wished upon him an unsightly rash, and worked to put him
behind me forever. I wasn’t going to let that horse’s ass ruin my first day in the UK.
My soul calmed as the cab made its way through the countryside and suburbs surrounding Edinburgh. I took in the beautiful rolling hills, the clusters of little stone bungalows, the elegant Victorian houses. The air was fresh and cold blowing in through the cracked window, and the sun was out and making a show of kissing every bare inch of Scottish soil, coaxing buds to bloom.
It was surreal to be zipping through Scotland in the back of a black cab. This entire trip had been arranged less than a week
earlier—the one and only spontaneous decision I had ever made. My whole life I had longed for the UK, and suddenly here I was, and my adventure was already beginning.
I took out my notebook and flipped through the well-turned pages, my hands knowing the way, to look over my list again. I
knew it by heart, of course, but I ran the words over in my head like fingers across a talisman.
UK Bus Trip Goals:
Crawl out of pajamas.
Get over cheating bastard and his stupid ironed jeans.
Have my first real adventure!
Achieve stability, strength, and growth.
Adjust life plan, and prepare to kick butt upon arrival home.
I’m doing it already, aren’t I? What could be more adventurous than surviving the last day and a half, and nearly murdering
a strange man in public?
Regular pep talks were needed. The past six months of my life had been a colossal poop tornado, and I was the little trailer: swept up, turned upside down, and dumped in the desert somewhere, jobless, hopeless, and fiancéless. I needed something big to shake me out of my all-consuming funk quicksand, and this was going to be it. It was a desperate move to snap myself out of it, learn from my injuries, and make a new plan to get my life back on track.
For as long as I could remember, I had dreamed of traveling to the UK. When I was a little girl, my English grandmother had
looked after me when my parents were busy working, which was most of the time. Together we watched British TV, and she read
to me from Beatrix Potter, Paddington Bear, and later, Roald Dahl and C. S. Lewis. In high school I discovered English literature,
and it was Mr. Rochester, Heathcliff, and Mr. Darcy who seduced me nightly and inflamed my love for Britain into obsession.
I had always planned to travel to the UK, but with college and then work, somehow something always got in the way. For six
years, that something was my ex-boyfriend, Hunter. He was afraid of flying, so I convinced myself I was satisfied with simply
reading and watching all things British, from Bridget Jones to Jane Eyre, from Downton Abbey to Happy Valley .
And I suppose things might have stayed that way, at least for the foreseeable future, until one fateful night when I got a
nasty surprise. A photo on Instagram of a ring. My engagement ring. On another girl’s hand.
I had finished an old bottle of butterscotch schnapps I discovered in the back of the pantry, opened my laptop, found a flight
from DC to Edinburgh at such a good price that it would have been criminal not to buy it, clicked, and treated myself as a little early birthday gift.
Before I could sober up and chicken out, I also booked a nonrefundable three-week literary bus tour. It was going to be my
lifeline. I was going to Eat, Pray, Love the crap out of this! But rather than meditation and moderation in an ashram in India somewhere, I chose tea, castles, and
book chat in Britain.
The tour would start in Edinburgh, travel southward through England, then scoop along to the southern coast up to Wales, through the mountains back to Scotland, zip along the Highlands, and finally return to Edinburgh in one giant, picturesque loop, hitting major landmarks along the way as well as several spots off the beaten track.
Normally, I would have spent untold lengths of time researching and planning the trip—making charts, schedules, maps, and
spreadsheets; carefully ensuring that I made it to every single spot on my Great British Bucket List—but this was so last-minute
that I hadn’t had the time. It’s fine , I told myself. This tour is going to be perfect.
For one thing, I’ve always been a bookworm, and the focus of the tour was on historical sites of literary interest, from classic
to contemporary works. It even included filming locations for some of my favorite films and costume dramas. It was no small
enticement that there was also a notable focus on good food, making use of stops to visit tearooms and award-winning restaurants, as well as many a pub
plus a Highland distillery. Toward the end of the tour, we’d even be sleeping in a real Scottish castle after a rousing country
dance, where I fully intended to gossip with my new friends behind a fan, like every Regency heroine ever written. The pièce
de résistance—it came with a reading list. A reading list!
Sure, I obviously didn’t have enough time to read the books all in the week before I left, but some I had already read. I
brought Notes from a Small Island in paperback, put audiobooks of Once There Were Wolves and Three Men in a Boat on my Libby, and hoped for the best. Mostly, I couldn’t help but commend the organizers for the spirit of the thing. It was
a good sign!
Another thing that swayed me was that this was a tour for women only, with an “emphasis on comfort and female camaraderie.” I found that a little bit strange at first, but soon decided it was just perfect. I didn’t want to get distracted and confused by the first sexy accent that walked on to the bus. Men? Who needed them? As far as I could tell, women would soon be able to continue the human race through cloning and just let the males of the species eradicate themselves—mostly from being crushed to death under an avalanche of unwashed dishes.
Three weeks did seem a long time to spend trapped in a box with a group of strangers, but that was all part of the adventure,
right? I liked this idea of a tour designed for strong women who wanted to embark on an adventure with other like-minded souls,
and focus on strengthening female bonds without the perpetual drone of mansplaining.
Besides, these women weren’t going to be strangers for long. They were going to be new friends and kindred spirits. I was
certain of it.
Now all I had to do was let this trip work its magic. That, and not miss the tour bus!
“There we go, love. That’s St. Andrew’s Square. Forty-two pound sixty, please.”
I handed him a fifty and told him to keep the change.
“Wait... I’m American. Did I just overtip?”
He laughed heartily, pocketed the cash, and drove off without another word.