The Idiot's Guide to Accidental Swimming

If there's one thing I learned in Scotland, it is this: I have no skills. Scotland is the land of intense and bizarre skills that I had a) never heard of before the trip and b) don't have a prayer of attaining at any point in the future.

Take, for example, the gentleman at the left. At first you may think, "this man's skill is looking awesome." And while he is clearly rocking his muscle shirt and kilt ensemble (because when you look like you eat raw puma meat for breakfast, you can wear whatever the f@&# you want), please direct your attention to what's in his hand. It's a big metal thing that weighs [mumble]billion pounds, which he flung across a field after spinning around a few times like a big, bearded ballerina. It was seriously impressive. This man later went on to throw a medley of objects across the field, including a big rock, a giant log, and something that looked like a anvil on a stick. I, conversely, couldn't arm wrestle a squirrel. Puma-eating-ballerina: 1; Lani: 0.

For exhibit two, I submit the preschoolers in the photos to the right. First, I have to congratulate them on their sock choice. I totally want a pair. But more importantly, take a look at how they're all moving in sync with each other. Have you ever seen little kids do that? I babysat in high school. I've worked in a preschool. Usually when little kids are corralled together with music on, about half of them do a weird squat-stand-squat-stand dance with their arms up, and the other half mills around aimlessly like the ghosts in Pacman. These kids moved in perfect timing, gracefully hopping up and down like tiny, plaid-covered kangaroos.

But the mini-highlander to the left really took it to the next level. First of all, she looks like something out of The Matrix. (Seriously, compare her to this picture. Uncanny.) Secondly, did you notice what she's jumping over? That's right, she's leaping over swords. The four year-old is leaping over swords. When I was four years-old, I tripped over my own feet so much that my parents were actually concerned that I had a neurological problem. This girl, on the other hand, is a fairly competent ninja. Tiny ninjas: 1. Lani: 0.

It's not really surprising, though, that I don't have those skills. Unfortunately, however, Scotland also taught me that I'm lacking skills I really thought I had. Like knowing how to read. Or more specifically, pronouncing the letters I read. How do you say Druim na Droichaid exactly? Yeah, no idea. Driving is another example. I thought I knew how to drive. But then the steering wheel moved to the other side, and I had to drive on the left, and there were 8,000 roundabouts, and before I knew it, I had smashed the side-view mirror on a gate. Thank god for the "peace of mind" insurance package.

But I was still pretty sure I possessed the ability to decide for myself when to go for a swim. Not so. Nothing could have made me voluntarily go for an open-water swim in chilly, drizzly Scotland. I'd have been even less likely to go for said swim in my jeans, shoes, and shirt, while carrying my camera. Did I end up going for such a swim? Yes, I did. Where? In Loch Ness. Thanks to a horse named Moss. We had made it about halfway through our lake crossing when Moss stopped. He turned to the side, with that unmistakeable horse facial expression that says, "I'm freaking out, man!" Then he tried to launch into orbit, flinging me sideways into Loch Ness, much like what the puma-eating ballerina did to the big rock.

So here's my advice should you unexpectedly find yourself swimming in Loch Ness.
1) Enjoy the moment! You're in Loch Ness! I mean, if you had to fall into any lake, this one makes for the best story.
2) When walking out, try to move fast. That mud has some sucking power.
3) Start laughing. That way you can join right in with your companions on shore, who are by this point doubled over and red in the face.

So what did I do when I finally got to dry land? I pet Moss and slung myself into the saddle. I have realized after all this that I do have one skill. I may not be able to keep myself on the horse, but I'm pretty good at getting back on. And for the Disaster with a Passport, that's a useful skill to have.

Me, having just crawled out of Loch Ness.

Me, back on the horse post-swim



















And just to provide a more equitable comparison with the little highland dancers, here's a picture of me at age five, showing off the proudest accomplishment of my life to that point: losing my first tooth. And I didn't really lose it. It wouldn't fall out on its own, so the dentist had to pull it out. Yeah . . . they win.

The Zombie Goes to Tea

In theory, I possess the ability to sleep on airplanes. In practice, I almost never do. No, it's not because the seats were designed by medieval torturers. I'm pretty much OK with folding myself into a small cube and passing out. It's the one place where being built like a dachshund is actually a plus. (If you have never seen a dachshund, this is what they look like, dressed as hot dogs: click to see) No, the reason I don't sleep on planes is because I'm always seated next to people who are either a) crazy; b) smelly; or c) possess some kind of sleep disorder that turns them into a space invader.

Allow me to illustrate. In category A, we have the man who kept me awake for seven hours while trying to convince me to come to Greece and meet his mother. In category B, we have the algae-covered man I shared a row with on a flight from Japan to Detroit. His carry-on was giant trash bag full of socks, and he smelled like the small mammal house at the zoo. Lastly, in category C we have the Rasputin look-alike with narcolepsy whose unconscious head bludgeoned me every twenty minutes on a flight from DC to LA. (If you don't know what Rasputin looked like, this is him: click here. I ask you, would you be able to sleep next to that?)

And on my flight to London last Tuesday, I was once again given a less than ideal seatmate. She also fell into category C. I should have known things were not going to go well when she piled her jacket, blanket, and pillow on top of me in order to buckle her seatbelt. I should really have known after she fell asleep twice while eating. But the moment I actually realized I wasn't going to get any rest was when she started tilting further and further to the side, like a stinky-breathed Leaning Tower of Pisa, until she took up more of my seat than I did. Where was I, you may ask? Pressed flat to the window like a tree frog. Eventually a flight attendant came to the rescue and woke her up. And then we repeated the whole process for six and half hours. Leaning Tower of Pisa. Tree Frog. Rescue. Repeat. All night long.

If you've ever flown east across the Atlantic, chances are you've arrived at the crack of dawn, about eight hours before you can check into your hotel. Such was the case for my arrival. It was hour 20 of being awake. Wrinkled and cranky, I left my bags at hotel reception and set out into the city to kill several hours. As time crept on, the sleep deprivation began to take its toll. My eyes got redder and would only open one at a time. This affected my depth perception, so I tripped a lot. I became too tired to focus, which caused illiteracy, aimless roaming, and an inability to speak in anything but moans. In short, I become a zombie. (Since I was in the U.K., think either 28 Days Later or Shaun of the Dead, depending on your taste.)

Technically, I could check into the hotel at 3:30. But I was meeting friends. They had made high tea reservations for four. I didn't have time to go back to the hotel. So I went, in zombie mode, to tea at Fortnum and Mason. I looked like hell. I could hardly sit up. I'm sure the waitress was surprised to see the bedraggled semi-conscious heap look up at her with one eye and say, "I'd like a pot of rose pouchong, please." After that, I mostly remember consuming lots of miniature food. (I'm somewhat concerned that the kitchens at Fortnum and Mason are staffed by Lilliputians.)

As the day, and then night, went on, I kept saying, "I should really go check in after this." And for reasons I don't quite comprehend, it just never happened. By the time I finally got back to my hotel, it was 1:30 in the morning. I had been awake for about 36 hours (at least I think it was 36, I lost the ability to count in the afternoon). I was surprised to discover that the woman who collected my bags was still on duty. Her coworker, who we will call Igor, eyed me suspiciously as I dragged myself into the lobby. I put my head down on the counter and said something like, "Left bags in the morning. Must need room. I sleep." He smiled and said, "Come with me. They are in the back. I must open [lengthy pause] the vault." Um, creepy. It was at this point that I noticed the dirty flickering overhead lamps and dark red stains on the floor. The dusty windows. The creaking doors. And the fact that the staff seemed to work all night without needing sleep . . . I am staying at a hotel run by Nosferatu, I thought. (I read the Twilight series three years ago, so clearly I'm an expert on these things.) They're were definitely vampires. I should have been concerned. Igor the Undead was about to turn me into his own personal Jamba Juice and all I could think was, "Damn it, now I'll never get to brush my teeth."

Needless to say, I survived. Igor handed me my bags, and I went to my room. I was still fairly sure I was going to be murdered in my sleep, based on the state of the room. That was obviously what had happened to the last occupant. But I was so exhausted I didn't care. "They can have me," I thought, "Just as long as I get to take a nap first." And with that, I, the tea-drinking zombie plopped on the bed and fell fast asleep.