Back from the Old Country

It was decided long ago that James’ first Christmas should be in Scotland so that he could meet his great-grandparents as such a trip must be planned well in advance whereas we can do New Brunswick with half a day’s notice.

So, for the first time in either of our lives, we took a baby overseas and somehow, we made it there and back without any major disasters. Such a trip usually takes about 24 hours to complete, when you consider airport connections, delays, and train rides to Scotland. But I am in awe of our son’s ability to roll with whatever our trip threw at him.

This is my second Christmas in Scotland and didn’t find it as dark as last time. Britain in winter is indeed dark, cold, wet, and generally miserable. The temperatures are higher than in Canada and yet I prefer our -15 degrees to their +2.

It’s not to say that it’s an ugly time of year. The low winter sun stays close to the horizon and looks almost white. Being driven through the hills, I saw three horses, standing on a frost covered hill as the sun rose over it. It was one of the most beautiful sights on that trip. And I didn’t get a picture. I did get a sheep, though.

Sometimes I wonder if we should give up Canada for the pastural life in rural Scotland. I like the country air, the endless comfort food, the wool sweaters, and BBC television. But then I actually meet the people who live there and worry that our kid’s going to grow to become a 30 year old who wears a track suit and sports a Russian mobster hairstyle and who hangs around the pub in the morning, waiting for it to open.

I love pubs for their variety of beers and spirits and general atmosphere but over there it seems you can’t just go in for a quiet drink or two and leave. No, you must drink to the point that you are thrown out. I rarely get drunk these days but I do like a drink. March was the last time I drank to excess. In Scotland, this makes me an agent of the Temperance League.

I think next time, however, the trip will be in summer and maybe we’ll visit other parts of Britain where people who have cell phones are not burned as witches.

Deep Fried Hamburger

This delicacy of Scotland eschews the gauche North American bun, opting instead to dip the burger in batter and deep frying it to perfection alongside such other menu items as sausage, haggis, and egg rolls. The meal pictured above can be found at the Loon Chen Chippy and Chinese Take Away in Langholm, Scotland. It is favoured by the discerning palates of the drunks at the pub next door.

Right. I’m off then.

Or I will be tomorrow. Two weeks in Scotland with the Goode Ladywyfe and the Heir for his first ever Christmas. Second Christmas will be in New Brunswick. Third Christmas in Montreal. Or maybe Cuba.

I have co-workers taking off for holidays in sunnier climes. My boss is going to Vietnam. But for me, there should always be a family element to Christmas, even if it just involves a tin of Quality Street, several rum and cokes, and hours of cheesy holiday programming. But it’s also tempting to say, ‘to Hell with all that pressure. I’m doing Christmas on a beach.’

That said, I’m looking forward to my second Christmas and New Year’s in Scotland, as well as the recently added side trip to Silverstone to visit the goode ladywyfe’s Auntie Andrea. I’m not looking forward to the 18 hours it’s going to take to get there but so long as we can keep the Heir happy, we’re happy.

We’ll even take the lad down to the town centre to usher in Hogmany. I probably won’t drink as much whisky this year, however.

You can’t jump a jet plane like you can a freight train

Because if the jet engines didn’t kill you, you’d probably get arrested.

On Friday, the goode ladywyfe and I are taking the heir to visit his family in Scotland. I always get a little antsy about international travel in the best of times. Now, we’re adding a 3 month old to the mix.

The trip will likely be Montreal-Ottawa-London, Heathrow Express to Paddington, Cab to Euston station, Virgin Rail to Carlisle, Car to Langholm. Our little guy is a pretty good traveler but this is going to be a challenge. It’ll be almost 12 hours of travel plus the bits where we’re waiting around. Plus this needs to be done while dragging two suitcases, a carry-on, a diaper bag, and a stroller. And that’s packing light.

I’m hoping he’ll learn to sleep through anything after this.

New Year’s Parties of the Past

December 31, 1979. Saint John, New Brunswick

On the eve of the 1980′s, I make a request of my mother to bake a special commemorative pizza with the year spelled out using my favourite topping: sliced hot dogs. The Kraft pizza box is brought down from the shelf and we go to work. When it’s apparent that there aren’t enough hot dogs to make a zero at the end of 1980, a modified 9 is created in a tribute to the year that passed.

I sat down in front of the television (I forget what was on, probably CBC) to eat my pizza while my mother and her friend sat in the kitchen, smoking and drinking wine. At midnight, I jumped up and exclaimed “Happy New Year!” to myself.

December, 1988. Saint John, New Brunswick

At the staff party for the restaurant where I washed dishes, the owner thought he’d look the other way while I’d help my under-aged self to the open bar to enjoy a beer or two.

I ended the evening curled up by the toilet at home and failed a crucial exam at school the next day.

December 31, 1989. Mloump, Senegal.

Shortly before midnight, I join a large group of men as we assemble in a large room, with benches lining the four walls. We take our seats and wait. At midnight, we are to dip into the Bunuk, dance, and usher in the new year.

Unfortunately, the 1990′s is delayed by the late arrival of the Bunuk. When it does arrive, it’s quickly consumed at what becomes a very fast New Year’s Eve party.

The next morning, I awaken to the radio playing a reggae choir version of the Beatles’ ‘Let It Be.’ The station is an English one from nearby Gambia. The announcer exclaims, “‘Let it Be.’ Everything gonna be alright. It’s 1990! A new year! New things!” I am unaware that we would be abruptly leaving the country in a matter of days.

December 31, 1999. Saint John, New Brunswick

The millennium is ushered in a friend’s rented row house on Queen Street in the South End. In the basement, a band plays. On the main floor, people watch Sean Majumder host New Year’s festivities from St. John’s, celebrating the new millennium a half hour early.

December 31, 2000. Winnipeg, Manitoba.

An excruciating 3 three hour dinner at a popular Chinese restaurant is spent with a girl who is just not that into me.

December 31, 2002. Dorion, Quebec.

My first New Year’s is spent with my someday-to-be-fiance’s family. Despite this, we are still together.

December 31, 2005. Langholm, Scotland.

We stood in the town square and watched the pipers march through the town. A chavette grabs me, kisses me hard of the cheek, runs into a pub and screams: “Let’s git, let’s git, let’s git fooking mental!”

My introduction to Hogmanay happens at the local postman’s house. Mass quantities of whiskey are consumed well into the early hours.

Apparently I didn’t learn from the pounding hangover as we are making plans to head back there in a year.