Finding Fraser (8 page)

Fantastic Flight…

11:00 am, February 25

Edinburgh Airport, Scotland

I’m here.

Can you believe it?

I can hardly believe it.

I am HERE. That is to say, alive, and on
the ground in Scotland. Tired, cricked-of-neck from sitting frozen with fear
for over seven hours on the plane, but with a weird kind of adrenaline-optimism
shooting through my veins. I actually made it.

Not quite to the correct city, however.

My Glasgow flight was redirected to
Edinburgh, due to a massive snowfall. And it was even touch and go here in
Edinburgh, with some talk of dropping us in Manchester. Apparently they are not
used to big snowfalls here.

But the pilot came on the p.a. system,
and said he was going to give ‘er a go, and for the three thousandth time I
closed my eyes and prayed to a God I don’t really believe in, and sure enough——whatever
he gave ‘er actually worked. We didn’t even slide sideways on the landing, or
crash into a snowbank, or anything. Not sure that the conversation with God
helped. (But if it did——thank You…)

So I am here in a teashop in the airport,
eating my first Scottish——REAL Scottish——shortbread,
and trying to take it all in. The air is alive with wonderful accents and I
don’t know if it’s jetlag talking but I. Just. Feel. Wonderful!

Because of the change of city, I’m going
for broke and actually booking a hotel online through Sizzlespot. I’ve likely
lost my deposit at the Glasgow hostel, I guess, but maybe I can get a note from
the pilot and get my ten pounds back.

A note from the pilot? Yeah, okay, so maybe
it’s jetlag after all. I don’t care a bit. Once I get some sleep, I guess I’m
actually going to make a few changes to my plan.

But for now, I’m sipping bitter tea——just
like Murtagh would make it!——and grinning like a fool at everyone
who passes.

I’m here. In the land of Jamie Fraser.

I love it already.

- ES

Comments: 2

SophiaSheridan, Chicago, USA:

Okay, Emma, I quit. I can’t believe
you’ve actually gone through with this. There’s no turning back now, you know.
No one is going to come rescue you when things go wrong. I can’t imagine your
money will last long, so we can talk about this when it runs out. Then we’ll
see if you remember my phone number.

JackFindlay, New York, USA:

Hey, Emma. Used the card you gave me to
find your blog. This is quite an adventure you’ve planned! It’s nice to find
you online after the odd meeting in Philadelphia, and I’m chuffed to see you’ve
made it safely. Looks like I’m following in your footsteps, as I’m now in New
York City, en route to heading home myself in a few days. My editor feels the
final draft of the project I’m working on needs a fact check, so that’s my next
job sorted. Maybe we’ll cross paths again, but anyway, just wanted to say it
was lovely to meet you, and I wish you luck.

Jack

Ah,
jet lag.

I’d heard tell of it, but waking at five the
day after my flight arrived, I marveled that anything could make such an early
riser of me. While no one in the B&B was stirring, I took advantage of the
‘Wi-Fi-included’ option that I hadn’t had the pleasure of enjoying while
staying at the American hostels, and read the most recent comments while my tea
steeped.

I felt an odd wash of pleasure at seeing
Jack’s name. I’d forgotten I’d given him the card. This was followed by a
complete wave of embarrassment. The nice journalist or writer or whatever he
was who’d rescued me from the mob scene in Philly now knew all about my trip to
chase down a fictional character. From his home country, no less.

To make the embarrassment go away, I re-read
Sophia’s comment five or six times before shutting the lid of my laptop.
Nothing like the love and support one gets from family. And, yeah—that
was nothing like it. After my trembling-on-the-edge-of-the-abyss love note to
her, too!

Standing up, I peered out the window of the
tiny room in the Edinburgh bed and breakfast house. It was dark as a cell in
Wentworth prison outside, so I was unable to even discern what the weather was
like, though I did quickly learn that standing anywhere near the window
guaranteed a swirl of icy-cold air around the ankles.

I drew the curtains across the window,
counting on the heavy Scots wool to cut the worst of the cold. The heater was
cozy, the kettle was efficient, and the lady of the house had even left me a
little plaid packet of shortbread. I wasn’t really sure of the era of
manufacture of said cookies—or biscuits, as they were called on the
package. They might have been made ten years before, for all I knew. The
wrapper looked suspiciously old-fashioned.

I ate them anyway. The way I saw it, if they
were old, maybe they were time-travel cookies. That had to help on this trip,
didn’t it?

The truth was that I had just spent the only
night I would be able to afford in such luxurious circumstances, low-season
discount notwithstanding. I had survived the flight and my first night in this
gloriously brisk and brilliant country, and it was time to put my plan into
action.

Yes. THE plan.

The one where I was to journey to Scotland,
blink my eyes fetchingly and immediately meet a rugged, red-heided Scotsman who
would endure any amount of suffering to remain stalwart at my side.

Reality wrapped its cold fingers around my
heart. The actual hard details of how I would find this man, and what I would
do next remained decidedly unclear in my brain. I sighed, and leaned back
against the wall, my sister’s words echoing in my ears in the pre-dawn light.
And hers was not the only voice I heard in the gray of that Edinburgh morning.

Sophia had told me I was an idiot on a wild
goose chase. Sharan Stone had been strictly concerned with faux-Jamie
genitalia. And Genesie had been right, at least about Jamie. He was fictional.
I
knew
that. I did.

But I also knew that right up the street was
an enormous castle looming over the city. And wild goose chase or not, I could
hear it calling my name. I pushed all my doubts aside, gulped the last of my
bitter tea, and headed out to find my fate.

Firth of Forth…

4:15 pm, February 26

Edinburgh, Scotland

Twelve hours, ten flights of stone steps,
eight misheard conversations, six cups of coffee, four shortbread biscuits and
two sore feet later, my first full day on the shores of the Firth of Forth is
winding to a close. I mean, it is only just after five in the afternoon, but I
am seriously toasted. Not sleeping on the plane didn’t help. But know what?

I actually have a plan. A sleep-deprived,
caffeine-overloaded, adrenaline-fueled sort of plan, but a plan, nonetheless.

Remember the map on the inside of my copy
of OUTLANDER? Well, that day——the day of an event I try very hard
not to recall——in Philadelphia, while the lineup to have our books
signed snaked back and forth for more than three hours, I tried to trace out
Claire’s route, with a purple Sharpie I borrowed from the lady behind me in
line.

Apparently she used it to write poetry.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have chosen an
implement that would bleed through to the dedication page. But no matter. Because
the map is now indelibly written on my soul. Or, at least the soles of my
shoes, since I think I’ll be walking a whole lot more than Claire ever did. In
the end, the map-making proved a little difficult, as I had trouble locating
many of the places Claire visited, but I did my best.

So, though I do not have a stalwart
horse, complete with kilted horseman to hand, nor even the modern equivalent of
car and driver, and though the ground is covered in ice and not likely to offer
the joy of a summertime stroll through balmy air, and even though Claire’s
route as mapped from the story is strangely convoluted and several of the
locations are entirely fictional, none of these things will stay me from the
swift completion of my appointed rounds.

Or round, technically.

Because that’s what the plan is. A
circumlocution of this lovely country in which I find myself, with significant
stopping points as visited by one Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp Randall Fraser a
mere 250 fictional years ago. At each of these stops, I shall leave no stone
unturned in my search for a Jamie-like man of my dreams.

I have splurged on one more night at this
whimsical Edinburgh B&B. I plan to eat all the biscuits, in spite of the
fact that it will bring my total to six for the day, thereby ruining the
mathematical rhythm of the opening sentence of this post. And tomorrow? First
stop: Inverness. (Actually, my first stop will be the Edinburgh bus station.)
Shortly thereafter followed by a visit to the city where Frank and Claire
second-honeymooned before she made her life-changing journey. I’ve found a
hostel near the center of town that boasts hot running showers.

What more can I ask?

 
- ES

Comments: 37

HiHoKitty, Sapporo, Japan:

Book club members SO excited you are in
the land of Jamie and Claire, Miss Emma. We re-read OUTLANDER in your honor.

ParisiansLovePipers, Paris, France:

Nous
retenons notre souffle
…We hold our breath that you
might travel safe. Drone on, Emma!

(Read 35 more comments
here
…)

I
closed the lid of my computer feeling completely gobsmacked (a word I picked up
at the train station here and plan to work into conversation as much as
possible).
It had taken me a full twenty minutes to
read the comment section of my blog.

Twenty minutes, because, gosh, it appeared
that HiHoKitty had a whole host of friends who were ardent fans of Jamie-san.
The idea that thirty-six Japanese readers cared enough to comment left me
feeling delighted and heartened. I’d even picked up what appeared to be a
member of a marching pipe and drum band from France. Take that Sophia and Paul,
you naysayers!

But hot on the heels of the flush of success
came an unexpected feeling of responsibility.

When I’d begun the blog, it was more or less
a means to keep me focused on the idea of finding my particular version of
Jamie. Clearly, I hadn’t really thought things through, as evidenced by my
sister’s disdain. But less than three weeks after starting the thing, it had
become a kind of … addiction.

Finding Fraser was supposed to be a personal
diary to my inner self. But in a way, it had also become my sort of version of
a Canterbury Tale, situated slightly further north and some six hundred years
into the future. The only difference being the object of the pilgrimage; not so
much the shrine of a saint outside a big church as a contemporary Scotsman
ready to pledge his heart to an errant American girl.

Practically the same, really, wouldn’t you
say?