Traveling With Lola

When I arrived by bus to Edinburgh from the airport, I immediately sensed I was in a lively city with historic charm. Coming from two days each in Dublin and Belfast, I was relieved to be just in Edinburgh for four days, giving me more time to settle in. And this trip has shown me that any place you choose to spend your time in is worth spending several days in. I quickly realized that rushing through destinations is unsustainable, and fails to give a true sense of how a place is. 

Edinburgh’s architecture is lovely, and its thriving history loomed above me everywhere I was in the city (literally– Edinburgh castle, The Scott Monument, and Edinburgh’s Pantheon, aka the National Monument of Scotland) are all looming landmarks that won’t let you forget the historic charm of this place.

My free walking tour taught me about the history of this place, elaborating on how Edinburgh’s true experience was a result of the facade of the culture, where the surreal eventually became real just because they thought it should. Just like the good and bad of Edinburgh’s history, culture, and physical architecture, my experience of this city was some of the highs and lows of my entire trip.

The first night of my arrival, my hostel was taking a group to a Ceilidh (pronounced kay-lig) dance, a traditional Scottish dance event at a pub with live music. My check-in person told me about the dance, remarking how fun it is. It did sound fun, and I had a gut feeling that I needed to go to this event but I was nervous about going to a bar environment by myself (though with my hostel group). When one of my particularly outgoing hostel roommates asked me about going, it was the push I needed to go out with the group and learn this dance tradition. 

People have tried to teach me how to do two step, square dance, and salsa dance dozens of times and I can never quite get it right (i’ll blame my two left feet). After a few dance lessons and briefings in our small hostel common area, our group leaders escorted us to an unsuspecting pub in a nearby alleyway. At least two stories tall, the pub was designed around a dance floor, with a stage for live music in the front. Before the dancing began, I ordered my new go-to, a Guinness with Black Currant juice, and we waited for the traditionally-dressed band to take the stage. 

I can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard. Nothing was particularly funny, but the communal nature of this incredible event made the joy and humor in the room contagious. Over the next two hours, the band walked us through each jig and my poor dance skills were unnoticeable in the mass of sweaty bodies and. By the end of maybe a dozen or so traditional Irish dances, the room was so hazy with sweat and heat and I escaped the group to sit at an upstairs table to discuss the nature of life and dreams with one of the hostel volunteers. 

The next day, I was still riding the high of feeling like I found a community at my hostel. That morning, I met up with a free walking tour and the guide indulged our group with the history and development of new and old Edinburgh. He joked that Scotland is a land of fake ideas that became real culture. In 1822, King George IV made a historic visit to Scotland, becoming the first reigning monarch to visit the country in nearly two centuries. The visit was in part inspired by Sir Walter Scott’s novel “Waverley” and the romanticized portrayal of Scotland’s history and culture. 

To commemorate the occasion, Sir Walter Scott was instrumental in organizing a grand pageantry known as the “Royal Visit of King George IV to Scotland,” which included various ceremonies, parades, and the creation of elaborate costumes inspired by Scottish history and tartan patterns. This single visit, resulted in a permanent establishment of this culture, promoting identity during a time of cultural assimilation within the United Kingdom. This trend of “faking it until you make it” would continue throughout history and Edinburgh castle even served as a defense against the bombing of the Germans by firing blanks at their incoming Zeplin, sparing the city from destruction during World War II. 

Whatever I did after the walking tour was erased by the memory of the event that followed. The nightly event at my hostel was a pub crawl and the management company owned several hostels in the area. Several hostels joined us on this Pride pub crawl, each group with their own hostel leader to chaperone through seven pubs and a club to end the night. Determined to make it through each pub and finish the crawl, I paced my drinking, sticking to water at several of the bars. I also made friends with some lovely people, an Australian woman named Ryley and a German man named Marc.

In addition to enjoying discounted drink menus and free shots, we completed challenges against the other hostels to win glory for our group through public humiliation (and humor) like “order a drink in an Australian accent” or “propose to someone,” or “take a selfie with the bartender”. The third or fourth pub was this eclectic spot complete with a slide and a ball pit. You couldn’t pay me to stop laughing as I pelted my fellow pub-crawlers with plastic balls and did ball pit snow angels. Alcohol or not, I felt like I was genuinely having the time of my life, living it up in the nightlife of Europe with fellow travel enthusiasts. And then the night took a turn. 

When we made it to a club, our final destination of the night, Rylee and I dropped our jackets and her purse in the corner of the dance floor, within eyeshot of our dance circle, maybe 10 feet or so from where we were standing. My phone, wallet, and hostel keys were zipped into the pockets of my jacket to free my hands (and improve my dance game) on the dance floor. 

A few sweaty, dancing minutes later, I walk back to check on the jacket. And it’s gone. G-O-N-E-gone. Any sense of intoxication left me in that moment and I struggled to push down the sense of panic, realizing my important valuables were gone. Maybe someone grabbed the wrong jacket and put it down somewhere? I hoped, with a bad feeling in my stomach. 

Ryley’s jacket and purse were in the same spot, the only thing missing was my black jacket (easily identifiable, right?). After scouring the club’s three rooms and bars, I started to panic. Rylee and Marc helped me look throughout the club, even checking with the coat room at the front. We searched for what seemed like forever with no result and I sat outside the club at 3am, they tried to console me. I apologized for getting them involved and expressed my gratitude for their support in that moment.   

In the wee hours of dawn, I managed to get back into my hostel (despite my keys being in my jacket, now lost) and I tracked my phone through my iPad. My phone showed it was at a different hostel, one I hadn’t been to all night. 

I woke up the next day with the feeling of spiked blood sugar and adrenaline, still seeing my phone at the same location. And eventually through a desperate conversation with the other hostel managers, my friends, and the police, someone located my jacket with all of my things intact, in the common area of the other hostel. 

I was beyond relieved to have my stuff back but I was physically sick from the stress and adrenaline of the previous 8 hours. Despite this extreme low of losing my propriety, I was reminded of an inkling I had the previous day. While on my walking tour, I had a gut feeling that I needed to take one of my credit cards from my wallet, and separate it just in case anything happened to my wallet. When I lost my wallet and phone, I was lucky enough to have my passport and a credit card locked away from my other possessions. In the worst case scenario of me never seeing my wallet and phone again, keeping and ID and money separate would’ve allowed me to make it home safely. 

Despite my memories of Edinburgh being marred from the traumatic event, I’m grateful for the lessons I learned in this city:

1. Put yourself out there to meet new people in a travel environment.
2. Listen to your gut instinct.
3. Separate your most valuable possessions in case something is lost or stolen.