Honestly...

So, hotels and train companies are supposed to be businesses, right? Right. And yet...they seem so unbusinesslike.

First, Charles sought train tickets for the four of us (the Hallorans plus the Frumins) to Edinburgh. After two phone calls, 45 minutes on the website and a moment of panic when it emerged that we cannot pick up the tickets here in Oxford or at either Victoria or Waterloo stations (picking up the tickets began to feel something like finding Platform 9 and 3/4. And if you don't know what that means, shame on you), and about $1000, Charles had four tickets to Edinburgh from Oxford and back to London. Whew!

Then, one intrepid member of our little band mentioned the BritRail pass. Why didn't we get one, since it's a bit less for a 4-day pass than we'd just paid? Well, the answer is: the pass only gets you to the border of England. Not into Scotland or Wales.

Are you getting this? We'd like to travel up England and into a country that's part of the UK. A reluctant and rather grumpy part, but part nonetheless. But no. BritRail says that their pass covers only travel within England, and if you want to go up to Scotland (and God only knows why you would), then that's up to you.

On to the hotel. After 30 minutes online and a variety of sighs, Charles finally said, "I can't figure out how to get to this place!" Turns out that we have reservations in a building of small apartments. The building and the check-in are not in the same place. You can make a reservation, but the confirmation doesn't tell you where the check-in is. What about the website? It shows you where the apartment is, but not the check-in. No use having an apartment without keys, dude. And the directions say "keep going on Queen street. Proceed to central office." Ok, how? Where? No idea.

Google to the rescue. The address is 6 Queen Street, which allowed us to Mapquest it. But honestly, how absurd is it to take a reservation and then provide no phone number, no address, and no directions!!?!

I begin to understand why Scotland is the nation that gave us the deep-fried Snickers bar. More than even the British (who, as you will recall, consider a cup of tea a delightful luxury because the weather is so dreary), the Scots need a little something to get them through the day.

So when they get tired of BritRail dropping tourists at the border, and when they run out of hapless Americans with reservations but no keys to their room, stalking the streets of Edinburgh complaining, they turn to fat. Deep, fried fat on top of buttery caramel and molten chocolate.

That'll fix anything.

ADDED LATER: Charles tells me that there is a BritRail pass, for the same money, that would get us to Scotland. Whatever. Or, as they say here, Wha-evah. The point is: it was hard! And confusing! Wah!!!