Scotch Whisky a Go Go: Part, the Second

More interesting than Part, the First. Here we learn of Mary, Queen of Scots, see where Queen Elizabeth sleeps, and encounter a French angel.

I want to begin like this: First, let me say that I do not believe in angels, at least not the winged sort the Catholic family I knew as a boy framed into paintings and hung over the headboards in their bedrooms. But, because that is the first sentence of a short story I began many years ago, I cannot plagiarize myself for the sake of expedience. Also, because my second day in Edinburgh did not start that way, I will stay true to the meager and sketchy details scribed into my Moleskine.

Visited the Palace of Holyroodhouse, where the Queen of England sometimes stays. (Note: my sister would visit Edinburgh several months later, and she would be royally forbidden from visiting the Palace because Her Highness was actually there.) Spoke with Brian, a friendly guide, and he gave me a quick history of Scotland and Britain, as well as the religious history of the throne. Apparently, a Catholic cannot be king or queen of England. Wandering, I also wondered--just what does a queen do to occupy her time all day? In what is labeled as Queen Elizabeth's bedroom, the bed itself is enclosed in plexiglass, which makes me think that her true bedroom is somewhere else in the palace. I suspect that there are other, more modern rooms in the palace. I also see where Mary, Queen of Scots slept, as well as where David Rizzo, her personal secretary, was murdered.

Ah, yes: the angel.

As I left the palace, a young woman asked me to photograph her with the palace in the background. From her accent, I took her to be French. She was wearing, as I remember, a lightweight skirt, flat black shoes, and a blue denim jacket. (There must have been more--a blouse of some sort, and her legs were not bare). Her hair was long and blonde, and her cheekbones were naturally pink. She handed me her digital camera, and I took one photograph, then another, then asked her to check the images to see if they were suitable. She looked at the images. She smiled. She said this:

"The palace smiled nicely. That is all that matters."

That is a direct quote. I repeated it to myself. I stared at her and the palace. I would later write this in my notebook: "What a wonderful thing to say!" Such a statement, of course, indicates my high level of creativity and originality.

She thanked me, and I passed her again as we both lingered in the gift shop. She smiled so that her small nose rose slightly and her eyes shut lightly. She walked one way and I walked another, and I knew that no matter how I smiled in the future, I would forever know my smile was inferior.

Then, 15 minutes later as I sat in one of the Royal Mile Starbucks and consumed a coffee-and-cookie snack, I looked out the window and watched the angel walk up the street, her hands clasped behind her back, her white skirt and blonde hair brushed by the breeze, her face turned upward. If any person could be, she was joy. She also came into Starbucks, ordered coffee, passed by me and smiled her raised-nose smile, saying "hello."

I was happy with that. I am an old man, and such types of recognition and acknowledgment are gratifying. Then, when she was gone, I glanced outside and noticed a sign pointing to the Scottish Poetry Library--something I did not know exists but would plan to see the next day. I left Starbucks behind, turned uphill toward the castle, and walked into what was the beginning of a unique and odd experience.