although i’ve written articles on how to flirt with flight attendants [ask for vegetarian meal, stumble into the galley when looking for the loo, stare at them for the duration of the flight] it was only a few years ago that i joined the mile high club.

just after moving to london, i made a very concerted effort to keep in touch with my cali peeps… i think in my first year i flew back to the left coast maybe 10 times, almost always on virgin atlantic. they’re hands-down the friendliest, sexiest, trendiest airline, due in no small part to richard branson making it that way. they hire young and attractive flight crews, they have irreverent safety videos, they play music in the loos, they used to walk up and down the aisles serving shots of liqueur, and, at the time, they offered an under-25 discount.

oh, and virgin is the only airline to explicitly allow 2 people per cubicle. that is, mr. branson specifically instructs his flight crews to not forbid randy passengers from sneaking off to the toilets for a quickie.

anyway, back to my story…

i’m sat in my window seat, looking left out the window, having just concluded a delicious long weekend in san fran with my bois and grrrls. the 2 seats to my right are empty, cuz i flirted a bit with the check-in girl. or maybe just dumb luck. i have my magazines piled up, my noise-canceling headphones and minidisc player at the ready, and am hoping to catch some shuteye.

a few hours after take off, in the middle of my first film, i see a handsome flight attendant making his way down the aisle with the dinner service. he’s 30, black hair, blue eyes, very irish-looking. i unplug my headphones in anticipation and plop down my tray.

in the seats in front of me are a 40yo dad with his two bratty sons. they’ve been punching each other the whole flight, refusing to sit still, and dad’s going pink in the face trying to get them under control.

as mark the flight attendant pulls up to their row and locks his cart, we make eye contact for 0.08 seconds. hot. he turns to dad and sons to explain their menu options, at which point he’s kicked by one of the brats.

i can’t hear what they’re saying over the rumble of the engines, but from dad’s gesticulating and mark’s confused expressions, i can tell something’s not right. they chat for a few minutes, mark leaves, comes back and then i realize that 2 of their 3 video screens aren’t working.

this explains why the brats were so restless—a 12 hour flight with no shrek or animaniacs or spongebob to watch. mark apologizes, explaining there’s nothing he can do.

i grab his attention, explaining that dad and sons can swap rows with me, that it would be no problem whatsoever. relief creeps across mark’s face, and we start an elaborate dance in the aisle, the 4 of us with our meal trays and headphone cords and in-flight goody bags.

i sit down in my new seat, and mark leans over to thank me. as he touches my shoulder as a sign of gratitude, a wondrous electric shock travels down my spine. i assure him that it was no problem at all, and he continues down the aisle to finish serving dinner.

my attention turns back to the in-flight movie, and i gobble up my salmon and slurp back my red wine [shock! protocol!] meticulously [travel tip: eat slowly, as it will make the flight seem just that much shorter]. just as i’m finishing my meal, i see mark coming down the aisle with a big smirk.

he sits down next to me, which takes me by surprise, turns to me and tells me thank you again for being such a brilliant passenger… that was a very nice thing you did for me, i really do appreciate it. as a small token, i’d like to give you this! and he hands me a bottle of champagne. not a small plastic screw-top bottle. a big, fuck-off duty-free bottle of dom.

do i have to drink it now? i quip, my name’s eric, by the way. we shake hands, and this time i think we both feel the electric shock. we spend a few minutes talking, but neither of us are really paying any attention to the words… the eyes are saying it all.

in the lavatory, i lock the door behind me and the glaring fluorescent lights come on at full strength. he pins me up against the wall, we kiss, and i giggle. could be the altitude, could be the wine, but i think i’m mainly drunk off the inherent naughtiness of it all… that is the allure of the mile high club after all, isn’t it?

clothes come off, and i’m shocked to see that we don’t look half bad in the glaring overhead lights. cramped quarters, but i get the feeling he’s done this before. as we move into in-flight kama sutra position #37, he warns me, watch out for the soap dispenser!

he’s definitely done this before.

it’s art, you ned

my first visit to scotland was on a surreal school trip when i was 15. it was surreal because only cheri and i signed up from my school, forcing us to get lumped in with a group of 12 from lubbock, texas. i learned a lot about scotland as well as the country of texas during our two-week bus tour of britain.

scotland acts like an older brother to england. a slightly condescending older brother. an older brother that’s a little bit less successful than its younger brother, but condescending nonetheless. an older brother that is a bit more worldly, a bit more european, and that is a bit more relaxed.

i look to the scottish friends i’ve made over the last few years, and i see several common threads. fluffer ian, murray, the two davids… first, they all seem to be incredibly conversational. not quite in an irish craic sort of way, but still significantly more easygoing, friendly and laid back than the stereotypically uptight english person.

second, i find the scottish to be bigger partiers than the english, but a helluva lot more controlled. when i think back to the many late night drinking sessions [where everyone's talking pish] and also to a few weekend-long clubbing excursions, it’s my scottish friends who are still going strong, whilst my english mates are vomiting in the street, urinating on the dancefloor, or worse. the 11 o’clock drinking up time in england creates a pressurized atmosphere for the 20-something generation who don’t understand the dangers of binge drinking or alcoholism generally.

third, the scottish seem to be rightfully proud of their heritage. not in a novel haggis, bagpipes, kilts and black pudding, aye! sort of way, but in a more subdued, we’re more european than england sort of way. the centuries of anti-english sentiment are still there, but i find that [in glasgow in particular] there’s a more worldly, more independent mindset.

i reckon this is my fourth trip to scotland, and probably my last for a while. i doubled my mass earlier this morning with a hearty scottish breakfast, replete with haggis and black pudding for old time’s sake. unfortunately, the breakfast was nauseating, and i had to leave before i could finish.

no, it wasn’t because the food was dodgy. nor was it because i’m hungover from last night. no, what put me off my breakfast were the pockets of american tourists throughout the breakfast room, whose booming, obnoxious, self-important accents dominated the pleasant, quiet sounds of chit-chat and clinking silverware at the other tables.

i need to get over my anti-american sentiment. please tell me not everyone’s a loudmouth tourist. please?

up hope street, past sauchiehall street and then all the way up renfrew street—no problem. i’m a skilled traveler, dammit, and i have no difficulty making my way across town.

as i freshen up at the hotel, i glance at the clock and see it’s already 930pm. there’s a bit of imaginary jetlag creeping through my body, but mostly excitement to be in an unfamiliar city.

j j rousseau was a french philosopher whose texts were often cited and repurposed by freedom fighters during the late 18th century french revolution. he was a melancholy, introspective man [as many philosophers are], but i identify with many of his musings, particularly those taken from the reveries of a solitary walker:

it is only when i am alone that i am my own master. at all other times i am the plaything of all who surround me.

i also love my 80s soft-rock power ballads, ala chicago:

everybody needs a little time away, i heard her say, from each other. even lovers need a holiday, far away, from each other.

somewhere between these two quotes lies my excuse for running off to glasgow for the weekend. it’s been billed as one of the cultural capitals of europe. it’s a city i’ve never been too. i’ve heard nothing but great things from mates who have been. and, i have yet to meet a scot i don’t like.

strolling around the city centre on a chilly friday night, i immediately notice that the alcohol-fueled chav ned culture is in full effect. loads of lads running around in t-shirts [i'm not paying a pound for coat check!] shouting at each other and the passing girls, whose chubby bits are barely contained by their clothing. it’s not nearly as bad as, say, most college towns or even central london—but it’s still here and i’m negotiating through it, praying to not get preyed upon by a hen party.

i also immediately notice how uniformly white everyone is. i’ve spotted a few asian people, but i don’t think i’ve seen a single black person since i’ve arrived. interesting. unexpected. what does it all mean?

just as i start to doubt that glasgow is the cultural metropolis everyone’s billed it as, i turn the corner to find a 20-piece brazilian samba drum band banging away in the middle of the street. it’s chilly, it’s 10pm, but i’m loving it. as i bounce around for a few songs, the crowd swells to maybe 100 people, blocking traffic in the street. this all feels so very—european. i get a text from my only friend in glasgow, david, telling me he’s on his way into town.

my gaydar subconsciously drags me towards merchant city, where all the gay bars are. i mentally map where they all are, and continue on my leisurely
sightseeing stroll. i keep getting accosted by beggars and big issue-sellers, probably cuz i’m lazily meandering and on my own. there’s one persistent beggar, though, who chases me, forcing me to crash into this cute lad.

ooops, sorry about that! i explain, embarrassed.

ach, ’tis no problem, mate, he starts laughing, making eye contact and flashing a smile.

looking up, i realize that it’s my old pal david. the last time i saw him, he looked a bit scruffy, but i can see now that he’s reverted back to his clean-cut look from his television days.

oh my god, hello! i shout as i hug him.

he hugs me back, laughing, erm, okay!

so, how are you doing?! i ask

he pulls away, laughing still, and starts walking away.

for the 3 years i’ve known david, we’ve always had a bizarrely sarcastic and joking relationship. always tossing zings and quips back-and-forth, always slagging each other off. i assume he’s just playing around, so i chase after him.

oi, david, wait up!

he glances over his shoulder, but keeps walking.

oi, david, spare any change? i joke.

he stops, turns to me, and asks, how do you know my name is david?

hmm…

confused, i tell him, david, it’s me, eric! maybe he doesn’t recognize me without the blond yellow hair?!

he looks at me, backs away, and shouts,

sorry, mate, i don’t know you! and runs off.

i let him go.

later, when i finally meet up with the real david, i debate whether or not to even tell him this story.

i do relay my tale, of course, because nothing breaks the ice like a little bit of self-deprecation and humorous humiliation. well, that and because eric loves to tell his stories.

over the course of the next few days, i realize that much of glasgow looks like david, walks like my ex stuart, or sounds like my old manager murray.