At this time last week, I was in Scotland. And now, I can’t breathe and I can’t sleep.
This day last week, I was having an adventure.
Shelby and I woke up at 8 a.m. and were out the door by 8:30. We walked around looking to purchase some souvenirs for our families from the shops on the Royal Mile. Trouble is, shops on the Royal Mile don’t open until 10 or 10:30 on Sundays. So we ventured down a side street to look at some medieval buildings instead. The clouds were thick and the air fresh. The freshest, most beautiful air I’ve ever breathed. The kind of air that makes you believe in fantastical and simple things alike. The kind of air that makes you feel like you’re truly alive.
“It’s just air,” I hear you say. But it was more profound than that. Or, you know what, maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was just air. But maybe, I’ve never breathed air so pure, so unpolluted, so breathtaking before. Maybe it was profoundly simple.
The second I breathed it in I knew I had a problem. I knew when I felt that chilled, autumnal air course through my nostrils and into my veins that I wouldn’t want it to exit me. That I would want to stay in that quiet, medieval town where the air is fresh and the clouds thick, the grass green and the mountains like guardians watching over those at their feet. That this place, where I had no prior expectations of it, became a place of dreams. Better than a dream, though, because it’s real.
I couldn’t get enough of that Scottish air. I was thrilled every time we went outside. So you can imagine my excitement when we decided to walk 20 minutes to the edge of the city where an extinct volcano sits. Arthur’s Seat has all the grandeur of a king overlooking his kingdom. You can see everything from Arthur’s Seat. Lochs, putting green, castles, monuments, parks, apartments, mountains, everything. I could’ve stayed on that extinct volcano all my life.
I can’t breathe and I can’t sleep. I miss breathing that gorgeous air. I miss sleeping with the windows open. I miss that the air was brisk enough to forgo air conditioning. I miss the gentle noise of the bar behind our hostel off Blackfriars Street. I miss the mountains and the lochs, the deep Gaelic lilt of the Scottish people. This is what love does to a person. As with anything we love, I hope to find my way back somehow. And when I do, I hope that Scotland’s air is as exhilarating as it was when I breathed it in outside a café eating a caramel-and-chocolate-layered shortbread. Until that time, I will just have to meet it in my dreams.