WHAT IS THE NAME OF THAT F%$#ING PIG!?! -Kate

So, as Ben has already stated.  We did in fact go to the Kelvingrove museum, (What Ben didn't mention about the museum is the fact that we all learned entirely too much about barnacles while we were there- namely, barnacles have the largest penis-in-relation to body size... of all God's marvelous creatures!) And we did in fact go to Mosaic.  (What Ben didn't mention about Mosaic was that while we were there we met a lovely Nepalese woman who was trying to get her visa in order to go to the United States and continue her studies in biogenetics... and upon hearing this, I tried to pimp Ben out to her for the sake of procuring her a green card marriage... and take my word for it... the girl was HOT)    We are rounding out our second week here in Glasgow and the entire experience is already dripping in misadventures and shenanigans.   Here are some stories that you haven't heard yet:

Monday was technically my day off from the homeless shelter.  After we went to the museum and returned back to our illustrious digs- Ben and Janny were off to work the evening meal shift at the homeless shelter, and I was off to check my e-mail at a local bar... where I was determined (and told my companions as much) to strike up a conversation with a stranger... seeing as how we were here in Scotland to "love on" the people.  I set out at a steady clip along the same path that I travel maybe 3-4 times a day... a path that took me by a bus-stop that rarely boasts any takers.  This particular evening, however, I noted as I passed a young woman- perhaps in her early 20's, dripping off the bus bench- and I mean she was downright soggy-  so incredibly drunk she was singlehandedly fumigating the entire city block with her breath.  She slurred something at me as I walked by- and in true Denver form, I ignored her and kept walking.  The once glance that I did spare her as I marched past conveyed to me the extent of her situation- in as much as not only was she drunk, she was also sporting a shiner of epic proportions.  Her left eye was 17 shades of purple.  However, I am used to seeing people with dents in their heads- and nobody can blow off a drunk like a Denver paramedic. But about half a block away, I stopped, for a couple of reasons.  First of all, I had promised myself that I was going to step outside of myself and talk to someone tonight, furthermore, I was immediately mired in a moral dilemma of epic proportions-  the details would be laborious and verbose- suffice to say it had to do with when to embrace and when to refrain- it was very ecclesiastical (turn turn turn).  Anyway, thats how I found myself retracing my steps, plopping down on the bus bench and saying to my profoundly inebriated new friend 

"So... what happened to your eye?"  (There were probably better ways to start that conversation- but it was so RIGHT THERE I couldn't think of anything else to talk about.)

"Ach," she mumbled "Ah feel."

("Oh, I fell." for those of you not fluent in Glaswegian)

I resisted the urge to inform her that I know bull%$#t when I hear it, no matter how it's pronounced, and let that whopper slide for the moment. Namely because she was off and talking- and I didn't understand another thing she said.

A few people passed us- mostly men on their way to the shelter for the evening meal, and my companion hollered greetings at a few of them.  Who noted my presence with some curiosity and distrust- since we had only worked maybe one meal shift at the shelter thus far- they didn't recognize me.

I didn't really know what to do.  She seemed content to sit there until judgement day.  I watched the traffic whizzing by us with some dismay- worrying that if I left her alone she might stumble into traffic or get assaulted by any number of people who would have access to her in this public place.  3 people were murdered in Glasgow over the weekend, 2 of them solo women.  If we had been in my town, she would have gone to detox and I would have been checking my email by now.

"So...," I said, "Are you hungry? Do you need something to eat?"  figuring I might as well get her off the street and take her by the mission where she could get something in her stomach. 

"Oh, aye."

We stood, and she had to grab my shirt and yank me away from the curb, as I had made the classic american mistake and looked left instead of right for oncoming traffic.  I paused to consider the irony of that moment, and we were off.  Enroute, we paused so she could water the pavement while I kept watch for potential trouble, and then she tucked her arm into mine as though the yellow-brick-road guided us to our destination.  Passersby eyed us warily, the weight of their assumptions crashing into us as they took in her blackened eye, obvious intoxication, and our combined shabby clothes. I felt my indignation twist my mouth into a sneer, and I silently dared anyone to say anything to us.  She eyed the strangers with the same expression and summarily dismissed every disdainful look with

"F&%k 'em"

Once we arrived at the shelter, we found the doors locked- since no one was expecting me to show, and the workers always lock the doors while they're preparing the meal.  So the two of us ended up posted up on the pavement by the door, and it was my turn to feel unwanted and out of place as the crowds of homeless and "undesireables" gathered.  They eyed me with more questions and even some hostility- wondering where their friend had picked me up and what my angle was.  I wanted to explain something- say something- but I realized there was nothing I could say that would be right... that wouldn't insult.  So I sat with her, on the chilled concrete, and waited for the doors to open.

After I had deposited my company at the shelter (who it turns out, was a well-known frequenter of the place) I headed out again to check my email.  And ended up the quite unintentioned team member of a bar-trivia team.  I was just sitting there, minding my own business and a trivia game broke out.  The couple sitting next to me introduced themselves, and the next thing you know we were agonizing over obscure british pop-bands and movies from 1984, all in the hipes of winning 25 pounds (about 50$)  We were fairly confident in our superiority- and certain we were going to win, until the last question of the 3rd round: What was Miss Piggy's last name?  

"!?!?!?!?!" said everyone in the entire bar.

We all turned blank faces towards each other, since when did Miss Piggy have a last name?  Isn't it "Piggy"?

Being the overly competitive american that I am, I kept trying to surreptitiously crack my lap-top open and wikipedia my way into fame and fortune- but the next table- a couple of elderly, drunken Australian ladies- kept glancing our direction as though they were on to me.  Finally, one of them laughingly stumbled over to us, leaned over and hollered a phrase that will haunt me for the rest of my life...

Now, anytime I am stymied and cannot think of any answer to any question asked of me, I will forever be harkened back to that evening, in that bar, as an international crowd of strangers transcended cultural prejudice and animosity- banged our heads against a universal wall and yelled at one another:

"WHAT IS THE NAME OF THAT F(&^$ING PIG?!?!"