03.06.18 | Edinburgh, Scotland | 22:27

This was another rainy morning in Edinburgh. This is not me complaining, this is me telling you that I used this reason to do some laundry, instead of running out. One of wonderful things abou this flat is that it has a washing machine. One of the bad things about this flat is that it doesn’t have a dryer. That means that I will either have to walk my wet clothes to a nearby laundromat, or just hang everything out to air dry.

Rather than eat a full breakfast or lunch, I’m munching on some cookies and drinking lots of herbal tea. I’m saving my appetite for tonight. I have made reservations (once again) at The Witchery. I’ve talked about this place in year past (link: my visits to The Witchery). All these wonderful dining experiences wouldn’t happen if it weren’t for my friend/coworker Gwen.

I decided to take a walk through Prince’s Street Gardens, which is just down from the castle and is pretty much the dividing line between Old Town and New Town. There is an amazing cemetery, right near, that I have explored in years past. I didn’t take the time to visit it this time, but will hopefully find the time before the end of this adventure.

Throughout my travels, I have heard stories where Americans have been looked down upon, for just being Americans. I remember before James and I went to France and Germany, back in 2000, I was warned by a friend that I should tell everyone I was from Canada or they’d be rude to me, especially on Paris.

I ignored this advice and had nothing but kind and caring interactions with all those who I had met. I was never ashamed of where I was from and if someone has a problem, that’s their problem and not mine. I’ve never felt this cold shoulder that I’d been warned about.

That is, until today: I’m standing in line at the Starbuck’s, waiting to order a hot chocolate. I notice the girl in line behind me has wet pants. I make no assumptions as to why her crotch is wet, she probably sat in something by mistake. I hear her American, or possibly Canadian accent so I ask her where she’s from. She tells me Ontario, Canada.

I smile and say, “Oh, we’re neighbors! I’m from the states!”

She rolls her eyes, chooses a condescending tone, and responds, “I would hate for anyone to find out I live next to America! How embarrassing!”

I respond, my tone just as cold as hers had been, “Looks like you pissed your pants! How embarrassing!”

One tradition that I was able to follow through with was going to get my dinner at The Witchery. If you’d stalked me for long, you’ll know that this is the most amazing place to eat in the city. A bit pricy, yes, but well worth it to have a fancy night out!