So I set out into the streets, looking for any other pub that I could haul my lost soul into for another drink and some new atmosphere. But first, I had to empty the bladder. I went down to take a piss and someone came down and started talking to me about the weather or some junk. I couldn’t really understand him, but I played along as best I could, giving the thing Scottish accent that went over well. He didn’t pick me out as being fake, and if he did, he didn’t call me on it. I attributed this mainly to the fact that he was pretty drunk and was focusing intently on the urinal in front of him. Armitage Shanks. For some reason it reminded me of a Green Day song. All the porcelain in the bathrooms in this country was Armitage Shanks. It’s not really important, but for some reason, I can’t help but saying it out loud to myself whenever I see it written in gray on the white porcelain.

I came out of O’Connell’s and looked left. The Frankenstein Pub, historic, reputable, it looked like a big tourist attraction, and, being a tourist, it attracted me. As I stepped into the queue, I noticed a small sign over the bigger one, indicating that Frankenstein’s Pub was "world famous".

I was kind of skeptical at this claim though. I had never heard of it. I don’t think many other people had heard of it back home either. None of the people in my school that had been on the Edinburgh trip had advised me to go to the Frankenstein, nor had they even mentioned it. How could it be world famous if I hadn’t heard of it in my part of the world? How could it be considered famous if people who spent five days in Edinburgh previously had never even heard of it?

I was lost in my thoughts as I made it to the head of the line and nearly bumped into the bouncer. "Not another bouncer," this was going to prove to be a shitty night if there were bouncers at every pub.

"Can I see your ID?

"Sorry, I don’t have any," I replied.

"Sorry," he said, and motioned me away.

Fuck it. Frankenstein’s didn’t look that good anyway. Probably too expensive as well.

So I set out down the road, looking for a place with nice atmosphere and cheap spirits. I didn’t want an old man pub, because inevitably there would be no music to listen to and besides sticking out because I was a tourist, I’d stick out because of my age. I swear, sometimes there’s just no happy medium to be achieved.

It’s not difficult to find pubs at all in Edinburgh, the difficulty is just finding one that will make you feel welcome. I passed countless ones before I came to something that looked semi-inviting. Deacon Brodie’s Tavern. I went in and looked for a place to sit. It was packed to the brim. I went upstairs, hoping that there would be another bar to sit at, but all I found were tables with empty plates on them. I took another step in to make sure that it was dining only. My thoughts were confirmed as a waitress approached me, "This is closed, if you want a drink, you have to go down stairs."

Aye-aye, Captain. I slumped down the stairs. I’ve always hated being treated like a child. I ordered a Famous Grouse whisky, deciding that tonight would most definitely be a night for sampling different types of whisky.

The Grouse is nice, somewhat smooth, but it definitely doesn’t share the same sweetness that Bell’s had. There was nowhere to sit, meaning that there was nowhere to write, meaning that my time in this bar was a waste. Nothing but a waste. I didn’t want to chug my drink down, so I just sat there and tried to seem detached from it all. I was bumped by two drunken women who came up to buy some drinks. They obviously didn’t need any more, "Sorry," the soberest one said. I didn’t respond. I tipped my head slightly to acknowledge the apology and went back to my drink.

I suddenly realized another thing that was missing from the night; my boys. I missed my crew. My Ithaca crew and my home crew. It was a shame that all my crew never got together. Bob and Rob (homeslices) had met Chura and Davies (Matthew Chura and Matthew Davies, Ithaca-land bros), but Cory, Chura, and Davies had never met up with my full home crew of Bob, Dean, Kevin, and Rob, our padawan. I made a note to myself that this would have to change when I got back to the states. These were great, great people, and they all deserved to come together. "All in due time," I thought to myself, and lost myself in warm memories of good times with the boys.

I came back to the present when something shiny on the ground caught my attention. It was weird, in this country, it was very rare to find change lying around. Part of the reason was because coinage included the one pound and two pound coin, which generally found their ways into wallets, as they were too valuable to lose. As a result, almost all change made it into peoples’ wallets, therefore very little was found on the ground.

But I had found something. Fuck me, I’d found an entire pound on the ground. This was a rarity. I waited for a few seconds for anyone to claim it. I wasn’t about to snatch it out of someone’s hands. No one moved for it. Then I noticed that the two drunk women at the bar were picking up other change that they had knocked all over the ground. But they had assumed that they had gotten it all. I smirked to myself, finder’s keepers indeed. I discreetly put my foot on top of it, and they were rifling through their purses for more money, convinced that they hadn’t gotten enough cash together in the first place.

For a second I had flash of guilt. Was I stealing from them? I could just have easily had given them the pound back, and I would have seemed like a good guy, but it was a pound that they weren’t going to appear to miss anyhow. I made an executive decision thinking that ultimately, they wouldn’t miss it. I bent down to tie my shoe and picked up the pound in one fell swoop.

Quick moves and quick thinking had made me a pound richer. It was true that I wasn’t going to put the pound to any better use than they were, but I felt that in the end, I was the one who needed it more. I was a tourist, on a budget. Maybe they were too, but they were adults, established, with jobs and a steady source of income. At least I assumed all this. Looking back, maybe I should have given them the pound. But I didn’t. So I drank my Scotch and left the bar one pound richer than I had planned on.

I wandered around some more, trying to find the next great watering hole. It was about ten minutes after eleven, and the pubs would already have been closed in London. I didn’t know how long I had, but I figured long enough to hike around some more and look for somewhere else to go.

As I wandered around, I inadvertently found some touristy sights; Scottish Parliament, some Gothic style buildings that boggled the mind, and churches that put me in awe. I made a mental note to come back in the daytime when I had my camera on me.

The next pub I found was The Flying Scotsman. It was loud and rowdy with a sound coming out of it that wasn’t a tune I knew, but could easily identify as fiddle music. The signs on the outside advertised two pound doubles for the house Scotch. I had no idea what the house Scotch would be, but I figured it had to be something of quality in a bar like The Flying Scotsman. I opened the door and almost immediately hit someone with it. The place was packed. People of all ages and I’m sure there were a few kilts. I quickly surveyed the situation and realized that there was no way in hell I was even going to make it to the bar for a drink. It would have been like swimming through an impossible sea of bodies, like diving into a mosh pit and hoping to emerge with a full drink in hand. I quickly made an exit, noting to myself that this too was another place I should find at a different time.

I wandered with no real sense of direction, just hoping to stumble upon a bar. I followed another road and found a whole row of them. There had to be something worth ducking into there. Everything sounded jumping, and the crawl had been disappointing thus far. Two pubs does not a pub crawl make, it’s more like a hop, if even that. It might just be considered a pub roll.

I looked for a clock, it was quarter to twelve. I assumed that the pubs would probably closing in fifteen minutes, so I decided that three pubs might qualify as a crawl, and looked for the final stop.

The Last Drop. Looked promising, it would indeed be the last drop. I strode up to the door and a bouncer walked out. Fuck. Not again. Was there a conspiracy against me here? Britain was finally a place I could drink at the age of twenty, yet every place was telling me that I had to be twenty-one. We stood there in silent recognition for a few seconds. I waited for the usual routine.

"Can I see some ID?"

"Sorry, mate, no on me," the thin accent was sounding better, probably because I was feeling the alcohol a little. Most likely it sounded like crap.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-one"

"Date of birth?"

"Eight, seventeen," I caught the puzzled look on his face and I caught myself as well. I smiled briefly and followed up, "I mean, seventeen, eight, eighty-one."

He smiled to himself and shrugged, "Well, in you go."

I gave a satisfied smile to myself. It wasn’t that tough to get in anywhere, you just had to approach it correctly. You had to wait until it was too late for anyone to really give two shits.

I got in and ordered a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks. I looked around the pub and was shaken with despair. The music was bad, the crowd looked greasy and mean, and the drink was a little more expensive than I had hoped. I took a sip and winced. I used to love JD, but now American whiskey was on my shit list. Jack Daniels was out, all manner of Scotch was in.

I sucked the drink down. I wanted to get home. I tipped my imaginary cap to the bar man and set out for home. I hit the street and a little bit of a panic set in: I didn’t know how to get home. I had taken too many twists and turns to retrace my steps and I wasn’t even sure in which direction I should start walking to get home. I looked up at the sky and rolled my eyes. My expectations for this trip had been, on a scale of ten, right at the top. The reality of the trip on the first night was somewhere around a four. I had the money for a cab, and I’d been advised by the staff at the hostel that you couldn’t get far enough away for a cab to cost more than about five quid, but it was the situation that was getting me down.

I was in a strange city, surrounded by loud, rambunctious drunks. It was cold, it was midnight, and I had absolutely no idea where in Hell I was. I picked a direction that seemed like the right way and I started walking. Oh, I also had to piss. I hadn’t gone before I left the last pub and the feeling was starting to come on. The cold also affects me in the same way. Alcohol and the cold were just going to keep encouraging my bladder. I was waiting for a cab to pass by me with its service light on, but all of them were occupied. I kept walking. Bands of drunken Scots would catch up and pass by me, or pass me coming the other way. I’d look at the sidewalk. I saw some of them shoving each other from time to time. I felt safer because I was a guy, but I was a thin guy on my own, sticking out like a tourist. I didn’t want any of that trouble. I’ve been working out for close to a year now, and I have a lot more confidence in my strength, but not against a band of drunken Scots.

I saw beggar after beggar along the road, almost always on the opposite side. I saw more beggars that first night than I could count. I felt so bad for all of them, I wanted to give money, even if it was just a couple coppers, to each and every one. They’re not bad people, they’re just people. Maybe some of them deserve to be on the streets, but they’re all people, and they all deserve to be treated as such.

I’d heard the same argument from most people time and time again: "This is a welfare state. They can always stay in government provided housing, go on the dole, get a job selling magazines. It’s not like they’re helpless." But what’s easier? Sleeping in slums or sleeping on the streets? I’ve never been to a slum, but I’ve heard of some of the nutcases that go in those places. Sometimes I think I’d feel safer on the street. But what type of life is it to simply live on the dole? Sure there’s food, and there’s a roof over your head, but most people don’t have the drive to advance any farther. They get stuck in this rut of thinking that since they’ve been homeless, they’re nothing, and they just roll over and take the punishment. They don’t hope, they don’t dream, they simply shiver and starve.

I wish that I could help all of these people, but I know it’s impossible. I hung my head and kept walking on. More and more sirens were sounding, although I didn’t see the action like I had earlier. It was kind of menacing, thinking that at any moment you could turn a corner and be confronted with a scene you didn’t want to be involved in at all. What was even more frightening was that this was how I had pictured Leith at night, and this was the relatively nice part of town. If I felt this threatened now, I knew there was no way I would ever go down the walk unless it was broad daylight. Or, in most cases, overcast daytime.

Eventually I was confronted with a homeless person on my side of the road, "Spare some change sir?"

I dug into my pocket not expecting to find a whole lot, then I remembered the pound coin I had picked up in Deacon Brodie’s. I felt a lot better giving it to this man than holding it in my pocket. It wasn’t mine to begin with, so I might as well toss it in with an extra 20p.

"God bless you, son," the dirty, curled up man said to me.

I smiled back at him, "Cheers." I felt good about myself. I had done a good deed for the day. I felt a little bit like Robin Hood, robbing from the rich and giving to the poor. Well, no, I wasn’t at all like Robin Hood. I hadn’t robbed anyone, those women at the bar weren’t rich, and I hadn’t helped that man out much at all. Still, I could bask in the illusion for a little while.

Finally it happened as I was crossing the road; a cab passed with its service light on. He was ready for passengers. I was ready to hitch a ride. I stuck my hand out and he slowed down further up the street. The light changed and a line of cars went through the intersection, blocking my route to my ticket back to the hostel. I waited patiently, hoping he’d do the same.

Shit. He didn’t, he started moving on as well. The walking signal came on and he was stopped at a red light farther up the street. I hit the road in a full sprint and ran up tothe car. The light was changing from red to yellow when I caught the cab and banged on the window. He looked kind of shocked, but then the recognition set in on his face, "Sorry about that, mate," he said as I got in and sat down, "I saw you stop so I just assumed that you had changed your mind."

"No, the light changed, I responded. Prince’s St. Backpacker’s East?"

"Oh, on West Register, right?" he asked me.

"That’s the one," I said. He seemed slightly relieved to not have to take another stab at the destination. We set out and I watched the meter. I wanted to make sure that I wasn’t going to be broke from this cab ride. If the people at the hostel had misinformed me, I was going to be a little angry.

I heard more and more sirens as we were driving down the road. I addressed the driver, keeping the slight accent going, "Busy night for the police, eh?"

He laughed, "No, not really. Fairly average I think."

Holy crap. I never even heard this many sirens in London, a city about ten times the size of Edinburgh. I couldn’t believe what a bad night here in the city would look like. After a very short while we were on Prince’s St. I was literally a five minutes walk from the street that would have led me back to the hostel. I laughed and explained my stupidity.

"Oh, not from around here, huh?"

"No, a bit of a tourist," I conceded.

"Here, let me give you a bit of advice. That’s Edinburgh Castle up there, you can see it from anywhere in the city. It’s in the southern part. So that’s south, that’s north, that’s east, and that’s west. Alright?"

I nodded thankfully. I let the accent drop when I paid him, I wasn’t fooling anyone anymore, "Thanks, have a good night!" He drove off and I walked up to the hostel, buzzed in at the door, climbed the seventy-three or seventy-seven steps (I still can’t remember which number it is), and fell into my bed. A day of absolutely nothing but travel and exploring, yet I was exhausted. It was only about 12:30. I set my alarm for 9:30 so as to get to church. I had found an Anglican church earlier, so I figured why not check it out.

I collapsed in a heap on my spacious bed and closed my eyes. Everyone else was already asleep. I drifted off easily.