“Euro Summer” as United Kingdom Countryside

My days in the United Kingdom started unglamorously at the Denver airport at 3:30 am. The sky was black, and the evening prior I struggled to obey my six pm bedtime. My alarm blared at 2 am, interrupting my recently entered REM state. I didn’t bother for coffee from the Keurig in my bedroom. I’ve heard too many tales of other transient workers washing undergarments in coffee pots to subject myself to anything brewed from those bacteria traps. I sleepily and silently painted my face more alert, not even music to start my day. 

Once at the airport, my typical routine went underway: cappuccino from the FBO Lavazza machine and waiting in the lobby while the pilots fire up the engines. Normally, these FBO’s (aviation verbiage for the private airports-otherwise known as Fixed Base Operation) are bustling with employees, eager to cater to high-maintenance clientele and their equally needy handlers. It was silent. Not a soul walking through, or a TV turned on. Finally, a young man appearing to be at the edge of his teenage years drove me out to the plane with our clean dishes and 2 bags of ice. I did my thing: safety checks, preparing the cabin, arranging lines and polishing silverware. The catering finally arrived, a bit late, but it was four am. Our eight passengers arrived right at sunrise with their golf clubs, eager for the courses in Scotland. We arrived in Glasgow a warped ten hours later. Amiable and doting, it was a pleasant flight for only my second international trip since beginning this job in April. 

We landed in Scotland at nearly 10 pm, and the sun was still hovering just above the horizon. Pink and orange hued milky clouds reflected the landscape in a way only possible in the late summer months. By nearly 11, it was just hitting dusk. We took a taxi into town, with the driver on the opposite side of the vehicle than we’re used to on this side of the pond. 

After miles of backroads and fields we could hardly see in the dark hue of night, we came into downtown. Where ancient Art Nouveau was the backdrop for streets filled with young people in the midst of their Saturday night. Friends laughing over cigarettes outside pubs, screens on display for the World Cup game. The excitement was palpable, and I yearned to join them. After checking into the hotel, a Marriott with a modern Danish finish, I changed out of my uniform and perused the streets. 

Looking for nothing in particular, but at everything I could soak through my peripheral. I walked past two bouncers outside a simple-looking building. I saw some people my age entering and asked, ‘Is this a pub? Can I come in?” I hadn’t planned to enter, but I felt there was something inside I needed to be a part of; damned if I’m alone.

“Yer sure cain, we close the end of de match,” The large, hearty man replied in a thick Scottish accent. I struggled to understand him, but nodded and passed along my ID. After passing the entryway, the interior became much larger than expected. There were two signs with painted hands pointing in opposite directions. One pointed left for the roof bar, which appeared empty upon first glance. And the other pointed right for the church, which piqued my interest. I entered the church to find tough wooden staricases and fixtures of stained glass among cave-like ceilings.

At eye level was the smooth wooden bar and a mass of people all facing a projector showing the England-Norway quarterfinal game, which had gone into extra time. I nudged past people, who paid me no mind, and ordered a glass of wine with ice. I found an unoccupied barstool near a group of people who seemed opposed to striking up a conversation. Some were rooting for England and others severely against. They have a complicated history. I watched as a spectator, looking to perceive the place rather than envelop myself in it. 

The next morning I called down to discover hotel breakfast was not included for me, but I wanted to get out anyway. I would pass on beans and toast. The city blossomed in a wholesome light that Sunday morning. Passing by were runners in a 10k. I narrowly avoided joining them, carefully crossing streets at broken intervals to find a cappuccino. The criteria for finding this cafe were all based on vibes. After I had walked long enough and admired enough architecture, I found a spot that seemed local and trendy. 

Evidence of a Saturday night well enjoyed was obvious on the streets. Beer bottles, mysterious liquid stains, and leftover kebabs littered the streets. I was too busy looking up at medieval architecture to be bothered by it.  I walked past the Glasgow Modern Art Museum and was struck by traffic cones atop a statue of a man on a horse. Surely a commemoration to some war hero, yet on his grace sat three neon orange traffic cones. Two on the man's head and one on his trusty steed, with vertical thick black letters spelling BOSTON.

I later heard the story from a Scotsman: ten years ago these cones started appearing on this statue. The police would remove them, and they would cluelessly reappear mere hours later. They eventually gave up after the persistent bandit continuously repeated the cones.

Now they’ve become a tradition. So much so that when the Scots were in Boston for the World Cup, it became cone central as well. 

At this point I was soaking in gratitude; perhaps all the hard days struggling through an ever-changing schedule were worth it. After all, I had a morning in Scotland to myself and my cappuccino. I admired all the domes atop fortresses and the intricate flowers carved into marble and statues of guardian angels looking down upon the citizens. The beauty is in the intrigue, not the interest. I wonder who is that woman, carved in stone for the rest of modern history? And why did we decide strip malls were the better design choice in America? Why don’t we have plazas to foster community? This pondering and my time in Scotland were cut short because we had a flight to England later that afternoon. 

Solely a repositioning flight and just under an hour, it was a stress-free day for me, but the jetlag had started to catch up. The private airport we fly to is in Farnborough, England. Quite a way outside London. The day prior, I had made big plans to take the train into the city, but at 3 pm, with the dog heat of the afternoon setting in, all I could imagine now was a glass of rosé in the garden of our hotel in this quaint village. 

It was a 17th-century inn with harrowing walls and whispers of hauntings in room 4. The brick and mortar finish is coated with ivy whilst clay pots of white hydrangeas line the garden between picnic tables. In the lobby, busts of ancient philosophers stand next to numerous rows of built-in bookshelves with innumerable amounts of books collecting dust. There is no air conditioning in the communal areas, but every window is open, leaving sheer, white, pillowy curtains to demonstrate the breeze’s direction. In my room, the crisp, damp air of a swamp cooler hit my face as I opened the window. It was newly renovated, but even the gray tile of the bathroom could not dull the charm of the French crown molding and jade blue furnishings. 

I walked about the village for a while, then retreated to the garden where I wrote, “It’s a bit blazing hot in England. And by that I mean it’s 85 degrees. But there’s a feeling in the air when you can tell a place is hotter than normal. Even if it were constantly this temperature back home, when you come here you find the same circumstances almost unbearable. Nature has a way of telling on itself. The people always complain, but so does the pavement, berating the sun back to those who follow its path. The breeze whispers scorching messages, and the bugs lay absent from your view, in an uncomfortable stillness below. Birds are comatose in the shade, when they should be pecking about for crumbs of my antipasti plate. And me, forehead sweating and my spritz glass, with too little ice.”

The bartender forgot the champagne in the spritz, but his English accent was so jarringly charming, and I was in too good of spirits to care all that much. This wasn’t the sort of place where people complained. I ordered a rosé next for predictability's sake and had no idea if 250 ml were going to bring a bottle or a child’s pour. As it hit late afternoon and the breeze started to cool, I adventured again for a walk, finding my drinks would inspire a little shopping. Only it was Sunday and all the shops were closed by early afternoon. 

I mindlessly enjoyed the cobblestones, admiring the colorful choices for front doors next to the red brick homes built into one another, with varying heights of roofs.

Sunday meant Sunday Roast, a meal I’ve seen online for years and was desperate to taste, gluten be damned. My pilots joined me at The Castle, where I ordered another spritz and had a half chicken roast with sides of Yorkshire pudding, thick sliced potatoes, carrots, some sort of cabbage, and a mysterious meat patty. We ate in another back garden with thick greenery opening up to a mowed field full of life-sized games. Giant Jenga, human-sized chess pieces, and a fire pit occupied the space. All the voices around were British. I wondered if this was their countryside escape or their year-round abode. It was so serene, I imagined the latter. I preferred to picture these folks as regular people on a warm summer night in their hometown, a reminder of why they endure long gray winters. 

We sat long after the meal was finished. My companions told stories of once-in-a-lifetime trips,  African safaris, Tahitian water bungalows, and seeing the Taj Mahal for the first time. 

We sat until the sky turned to pink and orange hues and the breeze brought goosebumps to our forearms, and I realized I'd arrived at the moments I’d dreamed of when pursuing this job.