Glasgow (cont)

The next morning, I got out of my cramped, airless hostel room as fast as I could, and I didn’t even care that it was raining because it was refreshing. The Glasgow connection with architect and designer Charles Rennie Mackintosh was one of those things that I knew about at one point, but then forgot about, so it was a pleasant surprise when I was looking into things to see in the city. Another pleasant surprise, after walking all the way from my hostel to the city centre (and up an alarmingly steep hill), was realizing that I had read about the Mackintosh art school when I was a teenager and recognized its great art nouveau facade from a book on architecture I used to have. Unfortunately, I was there so early in the morning that nothing was open, but I stood around in the lobby and watched as parents dropped off their children from art classes. “What age group is she? And is it 2D or sculpture?” the people who worked there would ask. I thought about how these kids probably didn’t know how lucky they were to be taking art classes in that building.

Then, frustratingly, I figured out that the Mackintosh House, which I was told I should visit, was back in the other direction from my hostel (something I could have discovered earlier and saved myself much walking if I had been organized at all) so I walked briskly back up town. All I had was the photocopied map that the hostel had given me and it was sort of annoying in that sites would be indicated by numbers but it was unclear what street the numbers were actually on, which makes a huge difference when one doesn’t know the city at all and is wandering around in the rain. As well, the map was getting mushy. I found the Mackintosh House, which had an okay selection of his furniture, but I liked seeing the art gallery that was beside it (possibly the gallery of Glasgow University?) because they had some elegant Whistlers, and a painting of a Canadian moose (done apparently by a Scot to combat the claim that the North American moose was the same species as the extinct British elk. Duh!)

I phoned my friend Siobhan, who was visiting her boyfriend in Glasgow, to see when she wanted to meet up and she told me first I should go to the Kelvingrove Museum, which I was close to. I swear I followed some signs that lied to me, because I ended up on the Glasgow University campus (and it being Saturday, no one was there) and got completely lost. I was up on a hill though, and at the bottom I could spy a building that may have been a museum (it’s hard to know in Europe though, as gorgeous neo-gothic towers could also just be post offices or public toilets) so I began the winding trek down. At the bottom of the hill a gate led out to the main road but I discovered to my alarm that it was locked. ‘What the heck?!’ I thought, ‘I got in totally freely at the top of the hill! What use is this?’ I was not going to walk all the way back up and go around and when I saw that there was an open entrance on the other side of the iron fence I decided to hop the fence. ‘That’s what boys do, right?’ I thought, ‘They hop fences when they have to. No big deal. You can do this.’

The fence was too high for me to just jump up on it, but there was a plastic garbage container close by so I very carefully (it was wet) stood on top of it and raised one foot up on the fence. Then I raised my other foot and saw that they fit perfectly in between the iron spikes. Then I slowly lowered my left foot down onto the mushy ground, but I slipped a bit and fell towards a conveniently placed tree, which a caught myself on. Only I quickly realized that, while my left foot was on the ground, my right foot was bent up behind me still on the fence. “Ow ow ow ow OW!” I whipped my head around and saw that the bottom of my jeans had been pierced by the metal spike. Although it hurt a lot (I am not particularly flexible, and my legs were still aching from the crazy amounts of walking I had done) I went to lift up my foot and dislodge my jeans. But I couldn’t bend that way, nor was I strong enough to pull up my leg any higher. Then I tried to just rip my jeans, but the hole was right by a stitch and it was stuck too. Damn you Levis brothers! ‘Okay, stay calm,’ I thought. ‘Just think. Ow ow. Okay, what can you do? Ow. How long may you have to wait until someone comes along? And what if they are teenage girls, or thugs who laugh and/or rob you. OW! And you’re getting more and more wet. Crap!’

In what must have been only a few minutes, although it felt much longer, and when I was seriously considering taking off my pants (although now when I look back, I don’t know how I would’ve managed this feat either), a middle-aged man walked by. “Excuse, sir? EXCUSE ME! Hey, sir, ummm, I was wondering if you could help me for a second. I’m kind of stuck...” The man came over, instantly saw what was wrong, lifted up my leg and helped me dislodge my jeans. “Phew!” I sighed. “Thank you so much!” “Now, for next time,” the man said in his Scottish brogue, “There’s an opening in the fence at the bottom there, so you won’t get stuck again. Good day.”