The Morning Commute

I'm launching a new series of sorts, detailing where I live, work, and play through a succession of photo-montages and mostly unsuccessful attempts at witty banter. (Yeah, it's more of the same.) The working title of this evolving, multi-phase project is Living in Glasgow; or, Why My Life is Better Than Yours. Joking. Kind of.

We'll be kicking off the festivities with the most dreaded part of anyone's workday: the morning commute.

If you're anything like my father, your daily commute to work is pretty standard: navigating the concrete jungle of the average American urban center. Of course, one needn't work in the city to experience the glory of the early morning sun reflecting off cold, dew-streaked cement. When I was in the States, studying in one of Alabama's quasi-metropoleis, my daily commute to school offered me breathtaking views of the congested lanes of Tuscaloosa's Hwy. 82 (though it's a bit of a stretch to call my two-minute jaunt to school a commute). However, no such views exist in Glasgow's vibrant West End, where parks and historic, Georgian-style tenements seem to outnumber humans three to one.

The scenery isn't all that's changed. I no longer travel in my zippy little Corolla, but rather on shank's mare, a steady and usually reliable form of transportation, depending on how fun¹ the previous night was. While hoofing it everywhere in this day and age might seem so--oh, I don't know--pedestrian, it's really the only way to experience the sights and sounds of Glasgow as she rubs the sleep from her eyes. Honestly, I couldn't ask for a better route. Go ahead, see for yourself. (Again, click the photo for the high-res.)


Every morning, I begin my half-hour commute to school at the back gates of the Glasgow Botanic Gardens, which are flanked by recently remodeled flats, their sandstone edifices sparkling in the ascending sun. Of course, being the amateur story-teller I am, I have failed to include a picture of said flats. (If you're dissatisfied with the service offered here at La Vacilanda, please see Management for a full refund, no questions asked. Heeeeey, wait a minute...)

I continue my way through the winding paths that mirror the movement of the River Kelvin, named after the British physicist and engineer who lent his name to the temperature scale. He is but one of the many illustrious students/lecturers who have graced the hallowed halls of the University of Glasgow. (Of course, I count myself among their ranks.)

These shots are of the greenhouses near the front of the gardens. Don't be fooled by the ostensibly flat footpaths; these photos of the gently sloping knolls belie the area's true topography, which is hilly as the day is long. The upside: I will have a nice tuckus by the end of my stay here.

Continuing along the for about a half mile brings us to the front gates of the garden, with its view of a charming theater/eatery called Oran Mor, which advertises "a play, a pie, and a pint." I love that half of the old churches in the area have been converted into pubs, flats, or nightclubs.

Another half-mile of boutiques, fruit stands, and pubs, and you'll find yourself here:

More on this later in the entry entitled Getting an Education; or, Why My School is Better Than Yours. (Notice a trend?)

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¹ For those keeping track, the mathematical definition of fun is a conjunction:

f μ a_c & f μ 1/s
wherein f = fun, a_c = amount of alcohol consumed, and s = incidence of sickness. [For the mathematically disinclined, the preceding gobbledygook translates as such: "Fun is directly proportional to the amount of alcohol consumed and inversely proportional to the incidence of sickness."]