With the parked taxi’s window wound down we could hear the sounds of the radio drifting out, playing that traditional sort of Scottish music: pipes, accordions, drums. If you guess the band playing, he said, I’ll give you a free lift home.
I know less about the traditional music of Scotland than I do about the politics of the Yucatán peninsula, so I took a guess. Is it your band? I asked.
He looked crestfallen. His face sagged. It was his band.
The night had been too much fun — the food too tasty, the atmosphere too good, the scenery to fantastic — to steal his fare. So we paid him anyway.
As you’ll have noticed, I’m blogging again. In 2005 I wrote from the United States, Peru, Chile, and Easter Island; in 2007 I wrote from Argentina and, occasionally, Edinburgh. Now I’m writing from Glasgow. It’ll probably be far more prosaic: Python and Django instead of a traveller’s thoughts and dreams of contentment.
We’ll see how it goes.