3.15 pm
Yesterday, while Glasgow airport was panicked and aflame, I was watching Scottish Red Kites cut through the sky. Their massive wings and their forked tail feathers were warm, pumping them through impressive dives for food. With meats in their talon clutches, Red Kites eat in the sky, bringing claws to jaws. They sleep on the wing too; in some ways, I suspect we all do.
Our Red Kite guide took us – me, Shaun, my dad Tony, his lady friend Cheryl, and Cheryl’s cousin Iain - hiking through the farm and thick wood, pointing out different types of nests, orchids, and animals along the way. With our binoculars, we spied a red squirrel, rare and pretty. We met a retired milk cow who was lovingly nursing two orphaned calves, smitten with their nuzzling and warmth after a career spent hooked to a cold, metal milking machine. We were covered by forest so thick that it suffocated the afternoon light and sprouted long, thick, and hilariously phallic mushrooms from its spongy moss. We photographed uprooted stumps that looked like monsters. We scooped up frogs and poked at pellets. We looked for tawny owls in the topmost branches, close to the trunk. Mud squished beneath our boots and birdcalls, rustling, and wind bloomed in the precious space of our silence.
At the end of the day, Iain drove Shaun and I back to the train station and took Tony and Cheryl farther north, to catch a different train that would take them farther north still, to where they are staying. Our ride back home was a sleepy one. Walking home from the station, I noticed that Crow Road was bumper-to-bumper.
“Look at the traffic! Do you think there is a parade or something on? They must have shut off a road for it to be so congested here.”
Shaun shrugged, but some charge in the air told us that the commotion wasn’t over a parade.
Once home, Shaun logged onto BBC to find out what had happened: somebody crashed a car into Glasgow International Airport. A flaming car. On purpose. All the roads around the airport were closed down; people were flooding into the city.
We found comfort in the action taken by civilians during the attack. People like Mr. Crosby and Stephen Clarkson helped diffuse the situation, aiding the police, ensuring the safety of those around them. A year in this friendly city has taught me that these people are not heroes: they are simply Glaswegians. This is not to say that what these people did is not courageous, or that their concern for others, their eagerness to help, their generosity and spirit is going unnoticed. It is only to say that I notice it all the time in Glasgow; these soulful qualities are not reserved for times of crisis, they are employed always. It’s just how they are.
Shaun and I really like this show called Spooks; it’s a spy drama about Britain’s MI-5 (this is like the FBI in the States). We watch episodes of it on our computer. This season’s focus is on terrorism in Britain, how it destroys people, mostly from how it is exploited politically.
We have a new prime minister, Gordon Brown. He moved in to 10 Downing Street on Thursday, when Blair packed the last of his things. So far, his handling of the flaming car in Glasgow and the two un-detonated car bombs in London has been fairly even headed. His official public statement did not contain grand, sweeping generalizations or alarmist suggestions that we are “at war” or “under attack.” I hope it stays that way; alarmist leadership does more harm than good, and it doesn’t take an episode of Spooks to tell you that.
Tony and Cheryl fly home to Michigan next Saturday. My mom, Rick and Julian will be in town the following Sunday. The airport is stepping up security measures, but we all know how shallow and tinny those feel when actually at the airport. I hope my family can take comfort in flying to a city whose inhabitants care so fiercely about each other. That’s all we can do, really. That, and try to be as fiercely caring as they are.