I took my first step out of the doors of the train and was immediately assaulted by the cold. Holy shit. Was this ever different from London. I hadn’t expected it to be this dramatic of a change. I buttoned my coat and walked through the station, my bag in tow. It was cold, it was dirty, and the light drizzle touched my head as soon I got out from under the cover of the platforms.

Scottish rain, almost a thing of legend. It was even more common than English rain, carrying even more a chill and even more of a bite. And I left my umbrella back in my flat in London. I wasn’t about to shell out even a pound for another one. I’d get wet. I had already bought an umbrella, why should I buy another one? I swore at myself, "Dumb fuck," and picked up my bag to climb the steps leading to Prince’s Street.

The hostel couldn’t have been any easier of a find. The directions were dead on. Come out of the train station, walk up the steps, and turn right. Cross the street and go behind the Burger King. Then find the next building on West Register Street and there you were. Easy as a frozen pie. Climb the seventy-three steps to the reception and you’re all set. Ignore all the paintings on the wall that depict the backpackers smoking spliffs and look like they’re a throwback from the drug dominated sixties and seventies. This was a youth hostel, there was none of that kind of crap here, right?

Feeling somewhat stupid with my suitcase and backpack, I shuffled through the door, happy to be feeling some warmth against my face. "Can I help you?" the girl behind the desk asked me.

"Yeah, my name’s Jade Rothman, I have a reservation here."

She looked through the book on her desk and handed me another book to sign into. All the blanks were pretty standard stuff; name, home country, passport number. I decided to pay for all of my nights in advance and make it easy on myself. The girl looked at the book again and then looked back up at me. She called her manager over. I didn’t really pay attention to what they were saying, but now I had started to get a bit overheated and felt as if I was taking up too much space in the office.

"Is there a problem?" I asked.

"Well, kind of. You see, for some reason, we have you listed as a girl, and therefore booked in an all girl’s room. So we’re trying to find an extra bed for you."

Fuck me, I hadn’t thought about that at all. This was the second time I ran into this problem here in the British Isles. The first time was when I was in contact with a couple of directors on a very low budget short film. I had been talking with them about casting, having told them only my name. Many emails got sent back and forth, and to make a long story short, they eventually gave me the part. The female part.

One of the men was admittedly quite embarrassed when I picked up on the fact that he gave me the part because he, "Thought we’d really get along and work well together." Without him explicitly telling me I was cast in the roll of the girl, I was at least able to pick up on the fact that he was hitting on what he thought was a woman. All the British professors at the college were surprised to see a guy with the name Jade too. I really had to stop assuming that people would get it right one of these days and explicitly tell them.

"How did we not know you were a guy when you called?"

"I booked online." I informed them. They all nodded with a, "well, that figures" expression on their face and proceeded to go about finding a place for me to sleep.

This time the manager addressed me, "You’re lucky, you’re getting the emergency bed in Nigel. It’s the only double bed in the whole place, and you’re getting it for the price of a single. It’s only temporary though, we’ll probably move you out of there in a day or two."

Grand. I pictured the double bed as two beds pushed together in a private room; a little dormitory where I could escape from everybody and anybody who might annoy me. I was in for quite a let down when I walked in. A mess of clothes and bags were spread across the floor, and three people stood around looking at me like I had barged in on something I shouldn’t have.

"Yeah?" One of them said.

"Uh, yeah. Hi. I’m living here for a couple nights." I responded.

"Oh, right," and just like that, the small buzz of people returned to normal. I sat down and unloaded. I’d been sitting on that damn train for about five hours, but after walking up loads of stairs with my heavy suitcase, I was happy to sit back down again.

I pulled out my notes and started jotting things down. These are to be my life line. I write my notes in real time, but I come back to them and write in the past tense. If you think about it, it makes sense, because to write present tense would mean that the moment is continually happening, but as soon as it’s happened, it’s over. At least, that’s my philosophy on it. Countless scholars, authors, and journalists who know a lot better would probably tell me how wrong I am. The notes are the most important part of this process. Without them, there would be no way to catalogue these events. Otherwise it would be like my journal entries at the beginning of the semester: sporadic, rough, very low in detail, all in all very uninteresting.

I started writing down the account of my check in and then I heard something that made my ears not just perk up, but stand on end:

"So when was the last time you took an E?"

"Oh, I dunno, three weeks," was the response, "Yourself?"

"Prolly a couple days ago. How about speed?"

"Oh, God, I haven’t done speed in ages."

"Wow, that’s too bad."

Great. Not only was I in a train wreck of a room, but I was surrounded by chemical heads. This was not the kind of environment I wanted to be living in. A bunch of drug addled travelers with no direction, no purpose, no real reason of being, just going where the party was.

All I wanted to do was make an escape, and a very quick one at that. "Best to travel light," I thought to myself. So I threw on my OG jacket and strapped on my backpack, filled to the brim with my writing necessities. I descend the seventy-three steps and walked out into the street as the light drizzle hit my face to let me know where I was. "I’m really here," I thought to myself, "I’m actually here…"

Where the hell should I go? Which direction? At random I decided west was a good idea. From my vantage point, the city seemed to stretch out farther in that direction than any other. I had a feeling I’d be able to find something resembling food in that area.

As I went down Prince’s Street, the first thing I noticed was the Scott Monument. How could I not? It’s like missing Edinburgh Castle; it’s damn near impossible. The Scott Monument looks like it should be a church from a distance, but as you approach it, you can see Sir Walter Scott carved in stone, perched for all to see.

I ambled about with no real purpose, just trying to find somewhere to get a bite. I eventually found my way to a pub (which didn’t prove too difficult in this city), and managed to make a fool of myself ordering a beer. I sat down at my table upstairs and the waitress came over.

"Hi, would you like something to drink?" Holy shit, she’s American! I couldn’t believe it. For some reason I hadn’t expected to find many Americans in Edinburgh. Maybe I was being naïve, but I especially hadn’t expected to find them working in the pubs.

"Yeah, what beers have you got on draft?" I envisioned the old spelling of "Draught" as I said "draft". I was proud, happy to finally be getting used to the culture.

"Uhm, do you mean, on tap?" she asked. People from other tables started to look up at me. I could already tell this wasn’t going to be my day.

"Yeah, tap. What have you got?"

"Well, it depends," she said to me, "do you like light or dark beer?" She’s talking to me like a five year old. I can’t stand it.

"What types of lager do you have?"

"Uhm, that’s lighter, right?" I couldn’t believe the way this conversation was going. A man off to my left wouldn’t stop staring at me, I just wanted to the whole thing to end.

"Do you have Stella’s? Yes? Ok, a pint of Stella, please." Wow, praise God. The simple task of ordering a pint of beer, which should arguably be the easiest thing to do in Scotland, became a semi-embarrassing ordeal. It probably wasn’t that bad, I was just being self-conscious.

I was, however, definitely sticking out more here than back in London. The English and the Scots are two drastically different races. While the English are very reserved and don’t want to be noticed at all, the Scots tend to be very boisterous, and very inquisitive about what is going on. At least, that’s what I was finding in my first hour or so in the city.

I looked over to my left to get a better idea of the guy that I could feel staring at me earlier. I did a double take and realized I was staring.

If you’ve ever watched Trainspotting, you’d know that Robert Caryle’s look of Begbie is a short, thin man, with thick black hair, a thick black moustache, and the stare of a killer. If you’ve read Trainspotting or Porno, you’d also know that he wears white socks, something of a faux paus here in Britain.

I was staring at what had to be the inspiration for the character of Francis Begbie. Same hair, same moustache, same gruff looking demeanor. He was smoking cigarettes and pounding a pint as he ate. He had tattoos running up and down his arms. His distressed, strung out looking wife across the table from him refused to make eye contact with him. On top of this, his socks were white. Slacks with black shoes, and his socks were white. I couldn’t believe it. I wasn’t sure whether I should introduce myself, or break out into a cold sweat for fear that he’d attack me for noticing him.

Whatever I was going to do though, I could feel his eyes measuring me out. I just tried to ignore it while I ate my food. I had definitely wandered into a tourist pub. The prices were outrageous and the portions were small, as well as incredibly delicious. It could have been that I was starving and hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and it was getting close to dark. Whatever it was, I devoured my food with animal-like voracity and hit the streets again, thankful to be on the move and away from Begbie.

I walked around some more and could feel the wind cutting straight through the OG jacket. "Never again," I thought to myself, "Will I leave the hostel without wearing Holly’s jacket. Unless of course I’m on a hike." I tensed up my shoulders and rubbed my crossed arms furiously in an attempt to get warm. As I recalled from the weather reports I had read before I left London, this was considered a good day.

I wanted to be out of the cold and I wanted a pint. I wandered around looking for somewhere with a cheap deal and found it at the Hog’s Head. It had what I thought were £1.45 pints of Boddington’s, but turned out to be £1.90. The cheaper version was only offered on Sunday through Thursday, and this of course happened to be a Saturday. No matter, still a cheap pint, but I wanted a proper drink.

I had no idea where I was though. I had no idea where I should go for one either. A pub isn’t exactly the place to get a martini. It’s a place where you get weird looks for asking for one. Then, like magic, a couple guys wearing jackets that said, "Revolution" came in and started attacking the Hog’s Head with flyers. "Revolution has cheap mixed drinks all night," or some other rubbish like that was written on it. It looked swanky, I was interested.

I asked the bartender about getting to Revolution on Lothian Road, he gave me a funny look and said, "No, mate, you don’t want to go there. Shitty atmosphere, really snobby. If you want a good place to go, check out the Liquid Room. It’s on Victoria, it’s all in the same area, you won’t be able to miss it."

I thanked him for the advice and weighed out my options. I could go back to the chemical heads at the hostel, or I could wander the city. What would you do? Depends on who you are really. Drugs and I are no good. They scare the Hell out of me. It’s like Thompson said, "You can turn your back on a person, but never turn your back on a drug." You might end up dead. I didn’t particularly like the idea of sleeping in a room with people I didn’t know who may have just taken God only knows what. I kind of wanted a drink, but sleep would also have been nice.

What I really wanted was Holly, though. Scotland is not for lovers, not at all like Virginia is. But somehow, with her in Edinburgh, it would become the most romantic city on the planet. Calling her was great earlier today. She was still a little stressed with all her work, but she’ll be ok. We love each other, and we’re both happy in that fact.

I looked down at my pint and decided that looking for other bars was better than going back to my shitty little room in the uncomfortable hostel. Over the lips and past the gums, watch out, liver, here it comes. I downed my pint and was off, hitting the streets with a vengeance.

I set out down Prince’s Street, heading for Lothian Road. The familiar wail of police sirens started to come through. I saw a car fly by me with its lights flashing, only to take a u-turn farther up the road and circle back. I pressed on and saw lots of fluorescent jackets popping up around the area and a kid took a turn up the road in a dead sprint.

"Stop! Stop!" a woman screamed. It was a police officer, she was chasing the boy down. Something told me that I should just turn back and go to the hostel, sleep in the comfort of my bed, but I was too intrigued.

Even more fluorescent yellow jackets appeared and the kid hesitated. "Bad move," I thought to myself. I was right. He was grabbed and slammed up against a wall. I never really found out what happened, I just saw lots of people his age walking in the same direction. Maybe it was just because it was a Saturday night in Edinburgh and people were out with purpose, but I couldn’t help thinking that he was the only one out of a larger crowd that was in trouble. I never really found out what happened.

I can barely read my notes as I’m writing them now, and I can only imagine that they’ll get worse after a couple of drinks. Once again I ask myself, "How did Thompson do this?" But it’s all rhetorical.

I got to Revolution and there was a bouncer standing there. I waited my turn and got to the door.

"ID, mate?"

"Uhm, no on me," I said, trying my best to give a Scottish accent while not overtly giving an accent. Just give the slightest hint of one, as if maybe I had a Scottish parent that moved over to the states to raise me.

"How old are ya?"

"Eighteen," fuck. It had been so long since I’d had to give my age to get into a club, I just got so used to saying eighteen. I tried to quickly correct myself, "I mean twenty."

He looked at me skeptically, "Who are you here with?"

What a stupid question, did I look like I was with anyone? "Myself," once again, obviously not the right answer.

"Date of birth?"

"Eight, seventeen, eighty-two."

"What?" God. Damn it. I could not do anything right that day. I completely forgot that the rest of the free world puts the date before the month.

"I mean, seventeen, eight, eighty-two."

He frowned, it looked very much like his normal expression, "Sorry mate, move along."

I rolled my eyes. I couldn’t believe how stupid I had just been. I walked farther up Lothian, finding Victoria, and eventually came across the Liquid Room. There were a bunch of people standing around outside and there was a bouncer standing at the door. I walked past everyone and right up to the door, "You open?" I asked.

"No." That was all the response I needed. It was like implying that a beating was following without even having to flex any muscle. I was quite impressed, but rather than compliment the man on his performance, I decided it might be best if I headed for greener pastures.

I started walking down streets looking for another pub. I decided to shine on the idea of a real bar. I didn’t have ID on me, and I didn’t feel like waiting in line in the freezing cold only to be turned down when finally getting to the door. I turned down a couple streets and saw a pub with a very encouraging banner hung on the outside:

Seemed as good as any other. O’Connell’s it was called, and still is. The price of a double Bell’s on the rocks was quite affordable, so I decided that this might be a good place to chill out for a while.

My thoughts started collecting in jumbles. I took a four person table to myself in the rapidly crowding bar and started furiously jotting down ideas:

Miller Genuine Draft is very popular in bottles here, I don’t understand it. It’s crap beer. I wonder if they call it Miller Genuine Draught.

I look around the crowd and count the cigarettes. I see only three, and I’m slightly encouraged. At least there aren’t too many people trying to kill themselves here tonight. The fewer people trying to kill themselves with cigarettes means that the chance of me inadvertently getting killed is slimmer, but the room is still smoky.

Through the smoke, I think of the pool hall in my hometown. The hang out of me and my boys, our crew, but all I can think about right now is how Holly and I had hung out there from time to time when we first started dating. We’d always leave the place smelling like smoke and feeling disgusting, but we didn’t care. We were just so happy to be with each other.

I really miss Holly. I honestly didn’t know you could miss someone like this. I always knew how much I’d miss her, and I always suspected that the longing would increase overtime, but I never figured it could get like this. Everyday the longing just kept piling up, accumulating until the dam was about to burst. I can barely take it now and I wonder how I’ll fare come the following month.

It’s like not breathing. It’s like filling your lungs with something that isn’t quite air. Maybe that’s why I’m here, in this semi-smoky pub filling my lungs with the semi-smoky air, it’s just like how I feel being apart from her.

Writing about her brings me closer, I never want to stop. It’s like, if I keep writing, she’ll magically appear before me, or I’ll somehow transcend space and time and somehow find myself sitting right next to her on any night I want. If I could go to any night, which would it be? Well, the obvious choice would be the second Snowball I attended with her, take back the breakup. Besides that…the first snowball. More magical than my prom. We were just so immersed in each other. We completely ignored Dean and Liz that night. Even though Holly was sick, it was like fireworks were all around us. There was no outside world. Her, me, love. Vanilla cokes, her being too tired to stay awake, her head resting on my shoulder. Nothing could touch us. I curse myself for ever letting it go…

The atmosphere wasn’t stifling, but it wasn’t conducive to creativity either. The music was pretty good, meaning that it was all stuff that I had heard of and liked. I couldn’t keep sitting there though, nothing was flowing. I wasn’t having ideas. All I could do was think of other songs I would have liked to hear. I was missing Holly terribly. I wanted to talk to her so much it hurt. If I was going to write anything creative, I’d have to get the juices flowing. I needed to get up and move around, and I had to do it soon.

But if I got up from the table at all, I’d be sure to lose it. People were fighting for elbow room as it was, and this table with one person at it was valuable property. Even if I went to get a drink I’d probably lose the spot. So what was I to do? I needed movement and I needed another drink, but what could possibly make all of that happen for me?

Then inspiration hit me like a ton of bricks. Two words: Pub Crawl.