Although I have a lovely post waiting to be written about Edinburgh castle, and a few things to say about our orientation week, I had an experience yesterday that I need to do a little good old-fashioned, grouchy story-telling about.
We finished our orientation stuff around one o'clock in the afternoon. The girl I was sitting next to mentioned that she had been able to find a reasonably priced, used bicycle at a shop in town (near the Kelvingrove Museum, actually). Since I've been wanting a cheap bike, I decided to check it out.
Things went smoothly as I boarded the 19A bus like a pro, paid my fare, got off, and found the bike shop without much trouble. They continued to move along nicely as I tried out a few bicycles and settled on one I liked pretty well (it's a violent shade of purple). I even found a helmet that fits around my hair, although it is bright orange and the "crash-helmet" style indicative of Hair (you know, "he lives in Brooklyn somewhere,\ and wears a whiiiiite crash-helmet). At least I'll be visible.
I happily wheeled my new bike out of the shop and to the bus stop, where I only had to wait for three or four minutes before the bus came. I got on, bike in tow, and off we went. And went. And went. At some point, I realized that the scenery wasn't looking very familiar. In fact, it wasn't looking at all familiar. Frankly, I had absolutely no clue where we were. It turns out that, while it doesn't matter if you get on the 6 or the 6A to go downtown, it matters a great deal whether you take the 19 or the 19A home. Because the 19 goes to some god-forsaken suburb that's forty-five minutes in the wrong direction. The not-home direction.
The bus driver was nice. He told me just to keep riding, and eventually we'd get back to the stop where I could pick up the 19A. "Don't think you're the first person who's done that," he told me. He even printed me a transfer so I wouldn't have to pay the fare again.
When I finally got to the right stop and saw the 19A bus coming, I rejoiced. It had begun to rain. No, to pour. I hailed the bus and it pulled over, but... the driver wouldn't let me on with the bike. Even when I pleaded, and looked cute and sad and wet, and explained politely that I had just got off another bus with the bicycle, and I'd never do it again, but it was raining and how was I to get home... No luck. Who ever heard of not being allowed to take your bike on the bus? Even the very dysfunctional Asheville buses have bike racks!
After this debacle, I realized that my only options were to ride the bike four miles home in the pouring rain (which a more hard-core cyclist would certainly have done, but that simply isn't me), or to find the train station. I had seen bike racks in some of the train cars, so I was fairly certain that they wouldn't kick me off. The trouble was, I really had not idea how to get to the train station. So, I started riding east. The traffic was heavy, and the streets were flooded, and cars kept throwing up horrible, grey, city-street water. I was soaked. But, finally, I found a familiar street name, and then another, and figured out that I was in the city centre, close to Glasgow Queen Street Station. And from there, things (finally) went relatively smoothly.
When I got home, I realized that it had taken me upwards of three hours to make the four-mile trip home. Clearly, I should just have ridden the bike home in the first place, before it started pouring. What a nightmare.
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