The one with the drunken Scotsman who wanted to have breakfast

Disclaimer:

The contents of this publication may or may not be real. Some parts of this piece could only be the product of the delusional mind of the author. Also, she wasn’t wearing her glasses when all of these happened. Most of the names were changed for privacy reasons, but then again, some of these people may not even exist in the first place.

The one with the drunken Scottsman who wanted to have breakfast

I arrived to Scotland at the end of the Fringe Festival. I guess it was sad to miss most of the shows and the city life during that week. However, while I was sitting outside a pub, slowly sipping my first British beer in four years, which forced the jetlag out of my system like liquid life, I got to see the fireworks spectacle right in front of Princess Street… It just felt like the perfect welcome to a place I love.

I had always felt such an emotional connection to Scotland, even before actually visiting it. After my first time in Edinburgh a few years ago, I promised myself I’d go back. My mother says I just like the architecture. I say I lived there in my past life. Choose whichever you want.

Anyways, for the next few days I decided just to enjoy the city. No fixed schedules or tight itineraries. Just walking around its closes and wandering among the buildings and shops with no rush. I swear I could have stayed there forever.

But then I had to travel to Anstruther.

Anstruther: A fishing village where absolutely nothing happens

Since I am a budget traveller, I had to find a way to make my accommodation as affordable as possible. I though about most of the possibilities: couchsurfing, housitting, refrigerator boxes under bridges… That’s when I discovered www.worldpackers.com. This website allows you to build a profile and exchange any sort of abilities for a place to crash. And they happened to be looking for a Community Manager in Scotland.

As some of you may know. I worked as a Community Manager for two years (the salary actually paid for most of this trip), so it sounded perfect. It wasn’t that far from Edinburgh, the work was very mild and they offered a free room, paid laundry and kitchen facilities if anyone was willing for the exchange. I didn’t need to read it twice. It would be an amazing opportunity to visit a new city, even if I couldn’t pronounce its name.

So I signed up for the ad and they offered me the place. Maybe it was a sign. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to go to grad school, but actually find my true calling in this unknown place… Or maybe not.

I had been on the bus to Anstruther for more than an hour, but I kept having this odd feeling. That’s when I looked around me and panicked. Had I mistakenly jumped on one of those senior citizen tours? Because, otherwise, I couldn’t explain why the entire population of the bus consisted exclusively of people over 60. And if so… Why did they let me in? I needed to change my night cream, for sure.

I double-checked, but it seemed that I was on the right route. Which was even more worrying. Where the hell was I going?

I got off at Anstruther Harbour after a 2-hour bus ride. It seemed to be a coastal town of some sort. There was partially crowded lane with a few shops and restaurants just in front of the bus stop and a pier with some old-fashioned sailing boats. I would have enjoyed the view if I hadn’t had the feeling that there wouldn’t be much more beyond it.

After wandering a few blocks away I discovered that, besides the main street, there was only one super market, a pub and a graveyard (no Scottish city, no matter how small, it’s completed without one). Ten minutes later, I was convinced that the entire population of that place consisted exclusively of old people, seagulls and children. Though I still don’t know where did the children come from… (are seagulls the Scottish version of storks?).

You may think I was being paranoid, but I had proves. Tinder confirmed that there was not a single male specimen in his twenties on a 45 km ration (I used it entirely for research purposes, of course). Don’t get me wrong. I am, by no means, a party animal or anything, but having someone on your age range to grab a drink from time to time is the key to any blogger’s happiness.

However, since I had exhausted all possibilities, I decided to get to my final destination. The hostel was a beautiful ancient construction, but I was experiencing a mixture of anxiety and anticipation to appreciate its beauty. Just to think that only a month ago I had been working a corporate job in a big city. While now I was in the other side of the world, possibly the furthest I had ever been from home and about to volunteer in a completely strange place for a whole month…

Anonymous Hostel, Daniela’s speaking

I rang the bell not allowing myself to panic and a man opened it. The owner, whom I’ll be calling “The Manager” (we will get back at him later, believe me), was a tall scrawny guy, completely bald and whose ears stuck maybe a little too far out of his head. He had a permanent bewildered expression and seemed to recognize me even before I could introduce myself.

“Daniella?” he asked (my name is spelled with just one “L”, but I always imagine foreign people pronouncing it with two). He had a strong accent, but he wasn’t Scottish, as far as I could tell. I couldn’t even nod when he was already adding: “Yes, yes, come on in”.

He opened the door and I hesitated. How much did I actually know about this place? Of course, my mom had the address, but could have been weeks before anyone realized that something was going wrong. However, my backpack was killing me and I couldn’t stay in the porch forever without revealing my unstable mental state, so I followed the manager inside.

The place was even more beautiful on the inside. A huge wooden staircase was in the middle of the building and the corridors were covered with Victorian panels. The construction extended for three floors over my head and the windows were decorated with seashells and remnants of old boats.

The Manager led me to a tiny, little office at the end of the hall, without even bothering to look back. I followed clumsily, with the weight of both emotional and real luggage behind my back.

“I want you to meet Maruja”, The Manger said. “You’ll be roommates. She’s another helper”.

“Oh… Good” I answered, hesitantly. Roommates always made me nervous. My last two had been the best roommates anyone could have asked for, so I knew in advance that the bar was high. But hey, whoever was volunteering as well, must also be an adventurous traveller, right? It sounded like a pretty good start already.

“This is Maruja”, The Manager introduced when he opened the door. “She’s Spanish. She’s been volunteering here for three months”.

From time to time I liked imagining how the people I would meet on this trip would be. The images were colourful and varied, depending on my mood. But let me tell you something: Maruja was not on the mental list.

The woman (because she was a woman, not a girl) must have been in her mid-fifties. She had a small frame and was extremely skinny. Her hair was short and messy, with a feather-like texture that curled around her head, simulating a nest. She also wore these huge rimmed frames that made her eyes look twice its size.

“Hola, Maruja, ¿cómo estás?” I asked her with a tentative smile

She looked at me and blinked twice, then she turned to The Manager.

“I don’t understand”. She finally said in English.

“She’s talking to you in Spanish, Maruja”. The Manager interceded. His voice had a rehearsed ring of patience on it. I wondered how many times did he have to use it.

“But she’s Mexican”. She said, confused.

“Well, Mexicans speak…” The manager started, but then stopped. “You know what?” he asked, turning to me. “Just talk to her in English. It’ll do her well”.

He didn’t give me time to answer before turning back to face the small room in which we were standing.

“So you’ll be working here”, he said pointing at the office. “Basically if someone calls, you answer and I’ll teach you to use the booking system. You also receive the guests and show the place”.

“And… What happens with the Social Media?” I asked, confused.

“What?” The Manager inquired.

“The ad said you were looking for a Community Manager?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah” he agreed “But that’s not important anymore. Since Maruja here doesn’t speak much English, you can do it instead. I’m leaving tonight. Will be back in a few days. You can have the day off now. Tomorrow Maruja will explain everything there’s to know. ”

“But…” I looked at Maruja, unsure on how to continue, but The Manager wasn’t listening anymore.

“See you now!” he turned around and left the office. Maruja and I were left alone in the office. I removed uncomfortably.

“So…” I started, but then the phone rang. I interrupted my sentence, waiting for Maruja to pick up, but she just stared at it with a completely panicked expression.

“The phone is ringing” she said, almost out of breath.

“Yes, I know…”

“Oh my god, it’s ringing again!”

“Yeah, they do that… You just need to pick it up”

A new ring put Maruja’s nerves on end once more.

“Can you do it?” she asked, almost hysterically.

“Do what?” I answered, more confused every time.

“Answer the phone!”

“Well…” I hesitated.

A new loud ring interrupted my train of thought and Maruja’s frenetic shriek

“Can you?!”

I picked up the phone, starting to get a little annoyed. I felt perfectly able to answer the phone, but I hadn’t signed up for that. In theory, I was supposed to be developing online media strategies, but no one in that place seemed to care about that.

“Anonymous Hostel, how can I help you?”, I asked in a mechanical voice.

“You speak English, right?” Maruja asked nervously next to me and I nodded, rolling my eyes. “Can you speak English”, I repeated to my insides, almost with a snort. I had taken years of English classes, lived the United States and even completed an International semester in London. English was the least of my troubles in that moment.

Or so I thought.

This may be altered in my memory, but I swear that what I heard on the other side of the line sounded exactly like this:

“Arrgastn ragnhn rawrr argfaghn”

I panicked. I was sure that the other person was speaking English, I just wasn’t able to distinguish any of the words.

“Uhm… Sorry?” I asked quietly. Maruja’s magnified glance pierced the back of my head.

“Arrgastn ragnhn rawrr argfaghn”

“Say again?” I tried one more time, focusing to the maximum, but the only thing I decoded was that the person at the end of the line was getting angry. And with good reason too.

I looked around just to find an expecting Maruja next to me. Incredibly relieved that someone, at last, retrieved the awful weight of the phone. I didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth.

So I decided to improvise.

“No, he’s not here right now. I’m afraid he won’t come back until next week” I said, completely aware that my answer was not nearly close to solve whatever the issue was. My interlocutor knew that too and said it to me. Or at least I imagine he did, because I still couldn’t understand a word, but “annoyed” is pretty much a universal language.

“Thanks so much for calling! If you need anything else, just let us know!” I said with a fake cheerful voice before hanging the phone. Maruja looked at me, anxious, but I didn’t give her time to inquire.

“They were looking for The Manager”. I rushed to say. “Told them he wasn’t here and they’ll call back. Gonna grab something to eat. See you later!”.

Opera Girl Number 1

I rushed to the kitchen before she could ask anything. While I opened the door, I as surprised. I guessed my Tinder statistics were biased (they only covered guys), because there were three girls in there, and yeah, they were about my age! The three of them were blonde, petite and were chatting animatedly with each other while they cooked dinner.

“Hello!” I said cheerfully. “I’m Daniela. I’m from Mexico”.

“Oh wow” said one of them. She had full cheeks and a very freckled nose. “You don’t sound like you are from Mexico at all”, she said in a cheerful voice “You almost sound English, don’t you think, girls?”

She turned back to the other two. They looked alike, but I had been in High School long enough to recognize the leader. A small, curly-haired blonde who took a little too long to answer because she was busy scanning me out.

“Oh, well…” She started with a clear London accent. “I don’t really think so. I’d say it’s more like an Australian accent, if you can really put it in a category”. She finished while the third girl nodded.

Now don’t get me wrong. I don’t have anything against Australians. Accents or people, for that matter. The outback is in my bucket list right after Europe, actually. Maybe I do have an Australian accent for all that I know (which will be cool!). But it was the way she said it. In that “it’s-Wednesday-and-you-are-not-wearing-pink-so-you-can’t-sit-with-us” kind of way.

“Uhm, I wouldn’t know” I replied vaguely, opening the fridge. “Anyways, I was planning to go to the pub after dinner for some cider, in case you want to join me”. I offered.

“Oh, no. We are opera singers. We are performing tomorrow and there’s no way we are going out for cold beverages late at night. Can’t stress our voices.” Said Opera Girl 1.

“Ok, then” I said. Opera Girls 1,2 and 3 ate quickly and left the room. I only had a sandwich packed in my bag and when I finished I thought about going for that cider, but the impulse had diluted a bit.

The missing key

I decided to go and ask Maruja to explain me about the system, but when I went to the office, it was empty.

“I’m jodida” A voice behind me spoke. I turned around and saw Maruja. Still in the middle of the corridor and almost shaking with terror.

“What happened?” I asked, too aware of the meaning of “jodida”. “Everything all right?”

“No”, she answered sharply. “I think I gave the wrong key to the guest”.

“Huh? Which guest?” I inquired.

“The Scottish guest” She said with no further explanation.

“You gave the wrong key to a guest” I said trying to make sense of what she was saying. “Well, then find the right one and give it to him”,

“Can’t. He’s gone to a wedding. Won’t be back until very late”.

“Oh” I said without having a clue of what to do. “Are you completely sure you gave him the wrong key?”

“I think so”

“You think so?” I asked a bit more aggressively than I should have.

“I don’t know! Was supposed to give him the light gold key, but I think I gave him the dark gold one. Wouldn’t know. I think I’m colour blind!”

“Colour blind people just mix red and green” I said.

“Well, I mix dark and light gold!

“OK, calm down!” I tried to soothe her. “Do you have the other key? With the different shade of gold?”

“Yes” she said showing me a small key ring with an Eiffel Tower.

“So let’s try it on the door and if it opens we will know for sure if you gave him the wrong key”.

I followed Maruja to the Scottish guy room and when we tried the golden key, it didn’t fit.

“See?” I said cheerfully. “He has the right key. You must have been momentarily confused”.

“Oh… Ok” she said, visibly relieved. “Bien entonces”.

We went downstairs again and she showed me our room. There were bunk beds and lockers like in any other hostel, but the place looked clean and safe. So that was enough

I unpacked and settled down to sleep, a bit tired after the trip. I wouldn’t have to work at the reception until 10:00 am so I had a long night of sleep ahead of me.

Oh I was so naïve back then.

It must have been around 3:00 am in the morning when the door busted open with a loud bang. I jumped off my bed and hit my head in the top bunk. I swear I lost half of my dreams there.

There was a silhouette profiled against the threshold. Darkened by the light of the corridor. A mere shadow against the door. Befogged by sleep and fear I could only reach to distinguish two things: whatever that was out there was huge and was wearing a kilt.

“This is the worst key ever”

The stranger spoke with a very thick Scottish accent. Rolling the “r” with a lot of emphasis. His voice was loud and hoarse, scratching the previous quietness of the room.

“What?” I managed to say when the consciousness finally arrived to my body.

“I’m sorry, but this is the worst key ever” the Scotsman repeated, waving a small key in an Eiffel Tower key ring. Whether it was light or dark, I still don’t know. “I can’t get into my room”.

Oh, dear. I thought. So Maruja had indeed given him the wrong key.

“Oh” I said “I’m so sorry about that sir. I’ll help you out in a moment” I said jumping out of the bed and realising, too late, that I was wearing my 7 dwarfs pink pyjamas. However, when I approached the guest I realised it probably didn’t matter. He smelled so strongly like whisky that I was surprised he could see anything at all.

“I’ll get you into your room in a moment” I assured him, super confidently. “I just need the master-key”.

And where could that possibly be? I asked myself. No one had given me a tour or explained anything. I assumed there was a master-key because most hotels have one, but where was it?

“Maruja… Maruja!” I called. My new roommate, who had been miraculously asleep during the whole encounter stirred in dreams. “Maruja!!” I called louder. “Where is the master-key?”

“Qué… Wha… What?” she finally answered, drowsily.

“The master key” I repeated.

“What key?”

“The key for the Scotsman room, for the love of god!”

“I don’t know”

“How could you not know? Maruja… Wake up!” I yelled when I saw she was starting to fade away again.

“What?” she asked again, blinking repeatedly.

“Get up and give me the key” I instructed. It took a few moments for the information to pass, but she finally seemed to process the situation and she went out of bed… Only to get back to it immediately after realizing she had been sleeping in her panties. Oh boy.

“Here” I interceded, guiding the drunken Scotsman out of the room to give Maruja space to change. “Let’s wait here while my colleague opens the door for you”.

Once in the hallway, I could finally have a look at the guy in question. He was dressed in full Scottish attire: tartan kilt, sporran and Prince Charlie jacket. He would have looked more imposing, but he was softly humming to herself what it sounded like a lullaby.

“So… Did you have a good time?” I asked uncomfortably, trying to make small talk.

“Are you from England?” he asked suddenly.

“No” I answered, “I’m from Mexico”.

“You sound English” he said. Ha! Take that Opera Girl Number 1!

“Well, it’s because…”

“What are you doing here?” he interrupted, trying to focus his gaze.

“Well… I wanted to see the world so I opened a blog and…”

“You wanted to see the world and ended up in Anstruther?” he interrupted once more. “I feel sorry for you, hen”.

You and me both, pal. I thought. I was about to self-pity me again, while Maruja came back, with pants this time.

“The room is ready” she announced. “You can go to sleep, sir”.

Maruja pointed the stairs, but he wasn’t paying attention.

“Want to have breakfast?” he asked looking in my direction.