GLASGOW: Day 2

It started on the subway in a short cramped compartment headed to Kelvingrove museum.

Art and exhibits and a mummified corpse, stretched out in a massive stone coffin. An excellent museum, and free.

We became hungry, and left.

Somehow we ended up at the Muslim Center.

Long story short: we ate fish and chips at Old Salty’s.

Went to the impressive Glasgow Cathedral and explored the ancient Necropolis on the hillside above the church. Giant mausoleums, tombs and headstones jutting from the muddy slopes like jagged teeth attempting to swallow the sun.  

We returned to the Hostel around 2:00 or 3:00, entering and passing the three Nigerians that seemed to live on the leather coach beside the reception desk.

Elevator: “Mind the doors, please.”

We stepped out onto our floor. Kevin opened the door to our room. Enter Jamie: a pudgy boy, British brat wearing a blue hoodie with black jeans.

Anyways, we ended up eating diner with the guy then ventured into the night in search of a warm pub.

We didn’t find one.

They were either too empty, too crusty, or were possessed of a disagreeable vibe.

There was a bar beneath some bridge—a nameless steel door, really—around which an audience of degenerates leaned and smoked. Their Mohawks were blue or bleach blond. Dressed in high-rise leather boots with leopard-print tights and nose rings: true-blue, hardcore Punks, licking their lips at each other while occupying shadows.

We didn’t go there.

We hopped on the subway and ended up in a bar near the University.

Ordered drinks.

I noticed a strange character lurking near the bar, small, fined-boned, with pronounced feature, spectacles, and a shaved head. He was dressed in all black and wore a peculiar hunting hat with laces strung through the crown (a tightening mechanism, perhaps?). His head bobbed on a thin neck, watching the crowd.

Jamie, Kevin and I found an open couch and sat down.

The guy—with his thin limbs and off-white complexion—wondered over gripping a gigantic stein of cider. He balanced on the couch-arm and crossed a delicate leg. He introduced himself as Nico, from Rome. A nice guy really, although he sounded Russian.

He offered Kevin a cigar and attached himself to us for the remainder of the night.

It’s late, 36 degrees and damp—the kind of cold that sticks to your bones—and we see an ice-cream truck parked at the curb.

The next day we leave Glasgow.