As part of my birthday festivities, Cristina arranged a surprise trip to Glasgow. We were able to do this as England, considerately, places a bank holiday following my birthday. This is the third place in Scotland that we have visited, and like the previous two, it did not disappoint.

We stayed right in the city centre, which allowed us to walk everywhere we wanted to go and not have to worry about arranging transportation. Glasgow, at least the centre and a bit of the west end, is a really pretty and dynamic city. Our location couldn’t have been better because we were right next to several nice whisky bars and all the shopping and high street activities.

One thing that I still haven’t figured out is the abundance of hair stylists. I don’t know if it is just that area or if Glaswegians take their hair really seriously. We spent more time than expected shopping because the prices are so much cheaper than London’s. We visited a few metal bars and listened to actual Rock and Roll - a seeming rarity in London - and traditional Scottish folk music at a whisky bar.

We were a bit nerdy and didn’t do any hard partying or the like. We ate out only twice - where we sampled some haggis, naturally, and the rest of the time was spent walking about and touring museums. We did do our whisky shopping and attempted to track down some specific bottles. The iPhone’s GPS came in quite handy after we we were given directions by a liquor store clerk who was three sheets to the wind. I’m not certain if that is common practice or not, but he managed to confuse left and right as well as which landmarks to make these turns at. While he wasn’t particularly helpful, he was quite friendly.

We spent a bit of time watching TV in the hotel room. that was mainly just while we ate dinner picked up from M&S, but we kept getting sucked into programs because of the Scottish announcers. My favourite was a documentary on the importance of the oceans. The host’s accent frequently made ‘currents’ sound like, well, another ‘C’ word. I hurt my stomach laughing when he spent a good five minutes describing ‘these powerful, warm currents of the Mediterranean’.

We’ve come back with some good photos and great memories. We got a few bottles of whisky, and Cris got an Iron Maiden CD so she can reminisce about her metal days. We had a great time, and I’m certain we’ll be back for another long weekend there.

Without exception, everyone of the locals that we met and interacted with were amazingly friendly. The Scots have a bit of a reputation for having a personality akin to their prickly thistle, but that wasn’t our experience here. I have only been to Scotland once before and that was a trip to Edinburgh, where I wouldn’t say the people were unfriendly by any means, but the Ileach were markedly different.

Our publican was a salesman through and through whose chief aim seemed to be to convince us that whatever we could possibly want could be found at his hotel. A guided tour showing us every aspect of our room, the hotel and grounds to a proud walkthrough of his extensive menu was our introduction to him. Throughout our trip he was impeccably dressed and groomed in his suit while running about chatting to every guest while managing the bar, kitchen and hotel. He was like a Scottish Tasmanian Devil running by and enquiring about how you’re doing, how you slept and how your day was. He would barely wait long enough for an answer before disappearing with a thumbs up and an “Aye, that’s grand. That’s what important!”

We spent a good deal of time on Islay driving around and discovering new places. It was quite peaceful as our car stereo came equipped with a cassette deck and nothing else. Occasionally we could get a radio station playing either country music or a talk show in Gaelic. Generally we just drove around having a conversation or enjoying the sights in silence occasionally punctuated by my “Look out! Sheep!” every time one would bounce across the road in front of us.

When driving in the car you can’t pass another car without receiving a wave. People on the side of the road will wave at you. When walking about you can’t pass somebody on the sidewalk without a comment about the lovely weather and a how are you doing. Visits into shops are never of the quick “I’ll just pop in” variety as they will have an entire conversation with you ranging from the weather to whisky to history to the role of the Scotland in the UK or the UK in the EU.

And the Scots are proud of being Scots. English pounds are brought in by tourists and promptly deposited into bank accounts, because the only notes we saw in circulation were Scottish. Three different banks mint three different varieties which I’m certain is done to spite the English. They even have a £1 note. Many of the plates on cars bore an SCO with St. Andrew’s cross rather than the familiar GB and EU ring of stars.

What makes Islay whiskies so distinct? Well the truth seems to be that nobody quite knows for certain, and while there are a lot of theories and ideas, consensus has yet to be achieved.

I have been told in the past that the barrel is where whisky picked up its flavours as it matured. Undoubtedly that has a great influence on a whisky and is one of the reasons there are so many special finishes and double-matured varieties out there. I tried a Kilchoman new spirit that was three months old and while it looked like vodka since it had picked up no colours from the wood, it had a distinct peaty, smoky, whiskiness about it. Clearly the wood and age aren’t the defining characteristic.

The recipe similarly affects the final effect of the whisky. All of the distilleries used malt from Port Ellen Maltings Co. to their own specifics. Laphroaig also floor malts 20% of their own malt which undoubtedly contributes to that special Laphroaig flavour. Ardbeg claims to be the most heavily peated whisky because they order their malt at 50 ppm of phenols in the peat. This seems to be somewhat open to debate though as Laphroaig said their malts are 55 ppm and supplemented with 40 ppm malt from Port Ellen. Caol Ila and Lagavulin both go for 35 ppm and Bunnahabhain uses a scarce 2 ppm. Clearly this influences the final flavour, but how much so is open to debate.

The processes and equipment used leaves a mark on the final whisky. While Ardbeg uses more heavily peated malt, Lagavulin say they achieve more with their because they do a second distillation of 10 hours compared to Ardbeg’s 5 hours. The shapes of the stills are universally accepted to shape the flavour as well, just nobody knows why or how. The goosenecks on the stills at Lagavulin point down and our tour guide espoused the virtue of the design as quickly condensing and removing the good spirit. The goosenecks at Laphroaig point upwards and similarly the tour guide claimed that made it harder for distillate to leave therefore only removing the best of the spirit.

Geography plays a part too, even on an island as small as Islay. Perhaps it is the spray of seawater at one distillery and one peat field that makes a different. The lochs where they each draw their water might have subtle geological differences that end up in the dram. Ultimately a distillery worker at Laphroaig just shrugged and said, “You could take all of our equipment, our whole distillery and move it a half mile up the road. The whisky made wouldn’t taste the same.”

The distilleries are remarkable. Each of them produces whisky that is unique, even when several of them are within a stone’s throw of each other. They all seemed to have their own style and personality as well. Caol Ila is the giant of the island producing 23,500 litres of whisky a day, 95% of which goes to blends (notably Johnny Walker). Visiting it is probably similar to visiting a Budweiser brewery where efficiency and industry is emphasised. Its closest neighbour is Bunnahabhain, probably no more than 6 or 7 miles away albeit most of those miles are down a nerve-wracking, winding road. In contrast to Caol Ila’s polished brass and giant windows, Bunnahabhain provides a cozy feel with their visitor’s center seemingly styled after a Victorian drawing room.

In the center of the island lies the Bowmore distillery, situated right around the corner from our hotel. Its location in the heart of the town probably influenced its style and character as it resembled more of a community than a distillery. Down the road lies Bruichladdich, one of the newer distilleries as it was recently re-opened and restored.

Bruichladdich, while holding onto much of the old equipment and priding themselves on tradition, are the new marketing-savvy breed of distillers. At one bar the menu for Bruichladdich’s whiskies ran across three A4 pages of a binder. They are the Starbucks of single malt whisky. I mean no disrespect by that as they do make quality whisky, it’s just a comment on their marketing skills. Just as anyone can have ‘their’ latte (skinny, tall, half-caf, heated just so) anyone can find ‘their’ Bruichladdich.

It is to the south of the island where the truly distinctive ‘Islay whiskies’ are made. Laphroaig, Lagavulin and Ardbeg all lie along a single road so close together it was common to see people walking or bicycling from one to the other. For such a small neighbourhood, it’s impressive how unique each one is.

Lagavulin exudes class and care in the craft of making whisky. Ardbeg has a somewhat cheeky approach creating whiskies with names breaking free of their labels (Airigh Nam Beist) and their dog Shortie with the ’second peatiest nose on Islay’. Laphroaig prides itself on its traditions and the result of which is described as ‘the most richly flavoured Scotch whisky’. It’s hard to argue with that assessment although the flavour is a love it or hate it type of affair.

Mi Mujer and I spent five days on Islay and those days were indeed well spent. We had planned for a short holiday somewhere new where we could just get lost and spend the time together. We settled upon Islay, and by a happy coincidence we found that our trip coincided with the annual whisky and music festival, Feis Ile.

I learned a great deal about Islay and whisky while I was there and a fair bit about the Scots, or at least the Ileach as the islanders are known.

The island is small, roughly 240 square miles and sparsely populated with 3,000 residents. There are only a few towns, and they are small enough to walk from one end to the other with a cup of coffee. In between the towns are vast expanses of open land quite often overrun by the true residents of Islay: sheep, cows and birds.

Upon our arrival at the airport we asked for directions to Bowmore where we would be staying. We were told “turn left.” The island is quite easy to navigate because it mainly consists of one lane roads with very few intersections and not a traffic light that we saw. Maps all seem to be of the hand-drawn variety and directions consist of a single road. While the roads can be a bit stressing while cresting a hill and rounding a blind corner in a road scarcely wider than our car, we encountered little traffic and few difficulties.

The island itself is almost entirely made on peat. Pure water can be tinged a brownish/black simply from filtering through the peat. The roads buckle, bend and break as peat is apparently not a great surface to pave. We saw peat cutters working in a field outside the airport, which we later learned was for Laphroaig, and they had cut troughs easily 12 feet deep. The peat was then stacked in piles looking like chocolate bricks.

While peat wreaks havoc with roadworks, it makes Islay particularly well suited to make whisky. It is as if God had decided to create an island solely for whisky making. The locals are respectful of that decision and are currently running at least 8 different distilleries. It is easy to see that distilling is the backbone of the Islay economy.

Well we’re back from four days in Amsterdam and I’ll have to start a detox program for my body. It’s so easy to indulge in so much in that city.

This trip was incredible and a marked difference from my last one. Last time I was there was in January of 2006. My sister and I had great difficulty finding someone to speak English with and were treated to many Dutch phrases that I’m certain were insults. We also saw the seamy underbelly of the city, which in most cases is charming, but in Amsterdam it can be especially seedy.

This trip was different. I’m not certain if it was due to the fact that Amsterdam cracked down on unlicensed coffeeshops and closed a significant portion of the red light district, but the experience was a marked change. Everyone was friendly, the weather beautiful and we were never treated rudely in any interactions. Even the coffeshops seemed cleaner and weren’t full of junkies and techno music. The junkies were bad enough but the techno music was unbearable.

We arrived at about noon on Thursday. After checking in at the hotel, we indulged in the complimentary whisky decanter in our room. Then we headed out in search of a coffeeshop. Our hotel was on a canal, and as soon as we crossed that we found a punk/skateboard shop. I was thrilled.

Next were the coffeshops. We found a couple about two blocks down that became our place of choice. Then we walked about the city; the weather was great and our meanderings and stopping at benches were a nice experience. I don’t remember benches when my sister and I went.

We went to dinner by ourselves rather than with the wedding party as we wanted a bit of time away to ourselves. We went to a restaurant called ‘Knus’ (cozy) and had a great meal. They had a crazy menu, which given Amsterdam makes a weird kind of sense. They had mains like raw ahi tuna lasagna with poppadums and wasabi vegetables. I was so tempted to order it, but I stuck with stuffed chili peppers followed by roquefort croquettes. I clearly felt in a cheesy mood. Mrs. Yanqui had goat cheese on toast followed by red mullet. The desserts were equally amusing as they featured pear and thyme ice with a vodka sauce, but we skipped desserts and just drank our absinthe sours followed by coffees. Absinthe sour, by the way, is not a good drink.

This is the first guest post on b!c! and is written by my mother who accompanied mi mujer and I on our holiday in Spain. She wrote it for her own column but I’m appropriating it here as it perfectly captures a first time experience in Spain as well as a significant portion of our trip. No mention is made yet of some events and places like Toledo which she says will wait for her second column. I’ll probably appropriate that as well.

I learned a lot about Spain on my first day in country March 16th except how to kiss socially. I should have read this morning’s Wall Street Journal (”Americans Learn the Art of the Social Kiss,” 3/27) before leaving. I’d known from our daughter-in-law Cristina when Dale and I first met her parents in London last May that it’s two kisses in Spain. And I’m pretty sure the sequence is left/right although the Journal reports otherwise.

But I was also pretty sure a kiss is just a kiss before I realized to my chagrin, more formally and on first meeting, it isn’t. Rather it’s a cheek touch, sometimes accompanied by light smacking sounds. Uh oh!

Yet, “no importa.” The Spanish are sociable and forgiving. And they’re probably used to stumbling Americans: some immediately extend a hand to shake.

Their country is beautiful, bien bonito. The people are relaxed. It’s early spring, and the Semana Santa (Holy Week) holiday is commencing. On Palm Sunday we are heading for the Church of St. Francis the Great. Needing to find a place to park, Cristina’s Dad, Rafael, drops us off at one of Madrid’s innumerable plazas. The air is filled with the beautiful and very loud sound of sacred music. I can’t see the speakers from whence it comes. Crowds of people are following a group we can identify only by the tall palm fronds that sway over their heads. Many of those who follow carry olive branches, and these are being sold along the way: “Gypsies,” Cristina says of the sales force: “They probably took them from somebody’s property.”

The Church of St. Francis the Great is an ordinary church in the sense that is has a parish and hosts regular services, Cristina’s Mom, Pilar, tells me, but my jaw drops as we enter. This is a city where extraordinary is the norm. The walls rise several stories above us to an inner dome, beautifully painted, and I think immediately that the window at its top must be the funnel to Heaven. Below, around the rotunda, are 9-foot high statues of the twelve apostles, carved from white marble. Paintings throughout the basilica and the seven lavish chapels that surround it are magnificent.

Today is the first day back from our Spanish holiday where we had a great visit with Mi Mujer’s family and my Mom. We spent 9 days in Spain, roughly 5 in Andalucia and 4 in Madrid. The weather everywhere was a pleasant surprise for March with only one really wet day that allowed a drive up to the mountains. I’ll have more details later, but here is a quick rundown.

• Photos taken: 650
• Cities/Towns visited: 8
• Cigars smoked: 9
• Bottles of liquor purchased: 2
• Restaurants visited: 7
• Kilos gained: 2

I am good and tired after a week spent in the States for Thanksgiving. Mi Mujer and I had a great time spent with family and of course lots of food. I indulged in many American microbrews unavailable here and a large turkey dinner that will probably be even harder to find in London with the recent bird flu outbreak.

We brought a few things over from this side of the pond. Mainly a few bits and bobs picked up in Camden Town and whisky. I did bring a few delicacies, and while most were earmarked for my dog, my brother-in-law enjoyed the curious mix of haggis and Marmite on a cracker. The dogs both refused a treat once a bit of Marmite had been added so it would appear that, unlike Paddington, they both sit in the “hate it” camp.

I started work on a new tattoo and got about 5 hours done. Not the longest sitting I’ve ever done, but it was long enough. I think that the older I get the more tattoos hurt. I swear my first one wasn’t that bad. This is the biggest reason, aside from the financial cost, that I space my tattoos apart by about a year. I love having my tattoos I just hate getting them.

Mi Mujer took part in the traditional misery of the holiday season known as Black Friday. She along with my sister and mother spent a marathon morning starting at 4am shopping and queuing and enduring crowds of other manic consumers scrambling for the best deals. I’m still not sure why this particular activity seems to appeal so to those with two X chromosomes. I spent the morning in a warm, comfy bed with my dog sleeping off a turkey and whisky hangover.

We’re both looking forward to our next trip. In the meantime we have St. Andrew’s Day on Friday, so I’m certain that some whisky will be involved though haggis is less likely.

No, it has nothing to do with a certain Hilton hotel heiress. La Mujer, my sister and I spent the bank holiday in Paris. We saw the sights, ate good food and drank good wine. Pretty much the requirements for a visit to Paris.

Paris has many nicknames, City of Light, City of Love, and even City of Cheese Eating Surrender Monkeys. As a Yank, it was interesting to visit Paris because there has been an eensy weensy bit o’ friction between France and the States in the last few years/decades. What I saw was a beautiful and at times bemusing city that everyone should visit at least once in their life.

One of the things that stands out immediately is that there is an awful lot of Americans in Paris. It’s hard to go anywhere without running into someone with an American accent. At the same time, the famous French snobbery and antagonism against America wasn’t something I ran into. Yes, there is a lot of snobbery, but it’s directed at the whole world that isn’t encompassed within the borders of France so it’s hard to take any particular umbrage to it. It’s also not something that you encounter on a personal level, it’s more of an institutionalized snobby cultural nationalism and not one evinced in the actual Parisians that you interact with.

For such a large city, Paris is really pretty small. Sure, the underground has 13 lines and hundreds of stops but it feels like you reach a stop every 20 seconds. It’s not difficult to walk around the city and at one point you can stand on a bridge and see the Louvre, Notre Dame and the Eiffel Tower all within a short walk. I know there is a lot more to Paris than the big three, but at least they’re quite easy to get to.

We stayed in the Montmartre neighborhood, an area historically famous for the bohemians and artists that lived and worked there. I’m not sure how to identify a bohemian these days, but there certainly are a lot of artists attempting to part tourists and their coins there. They range from quite good portrait artists and painters to quite poor painters and people cutting silhouettes or tying strings into braids. I’m sure finding patrons for the arts has always been difficult, and I imagine the Medici family probably endured many rubbish artists attempting to get funding, but the artists here are particularly aggressive. Amusingly when you politely tell one to sod off because you aren’t going to pay for a braided string, they become insulted and tell you that you should respect them because they are artists.