December 1, 2005
Scotland & Ireland

Jill Brooks, INtake columnist

I’m not knocking Indiana, but I love getting away. While traveling I become a very quiet listener, soaking up all the minute details my brain can hold. I journal daily, visit all the museums and used bookstores and, for a clotheshorse, I pack really well.

I recently visited Ireland and Scotland; not to find my family roots (they’re resting peacefully in England), and certainly not for the beer (yes, Guinness still tasted the same to me, like mud). I went for the rain, the wind, the sea and the history.

I packed one sensibly-sized suitcase full of Patagonia wear and cords, adding one dressy outfit with the most uncomfortable pair of sexy, strappy shoes I owned, knowing I’d be trading their space for a T-shirt or two (They may still be in a closet in Glasgow).

I debated over carrying both a hairdryer and a hair-straightener, and finally prioritized, which obviously meant bringing the straightener. I’m a girl, after all.

Potatoes were served with every meal, so I’m currently working off my cushiony “British Isles tire,” but it was worth the yummy, additional cholesterol.

Far the best thing about traveling is meeting the locals and fully immersing myself in their culture. This is often where my romantic sensibilities begin to take hold and, for instance, I actually hear myself thinking that I could live in an Irish town called Limerick, or Killarney, or Cork, hang out night after night watching Gaelic football or Rugby, and date a guy with horribly bad teeth.

This dream faded pretty quickly.

And then there was Edinburgh, Scotland. This must be the city where the very first muse breathed poetry and fairy tales into the dream sequence of every last female.

I surrendered to this city; here, I didn’t want to waste a single moment. Sure, the buildings could all use a fresh sandblasting, but their walls sang a plaintive requiem ode to the Bard.

And who wouldn’t want to see the land where the merry Queen of Scots finally bought the farm, anyway?

It is true, however; you can pack in so much quality sightseeing that you begin having a massive cultural implosion.

A conversation:

My friend: Want to stop at that beautiful medieval castle surrounded by lush, rolling meadows and stone walls that we’re now passing?

Me (staring forward): Seen one castle, seen ‘em all.

I emailed home almost daily and missed the people who missed me: A seeker, a dreamer and a homebody, if ever there were one.