Day 2 wraps up with painting by Dali and restaurant dallying

Orange juice at Kelvingrove coffee shop… then museum tour…amazing building… just missed the organ concert …

We ended our day in Glasgow by going to the Kelvingrove Museum and Art Gallery, an edifice in the Spanish baroque style completed in 1901. 

Here is Greg photobombing the museum.

A small museum visitor crawls up the entrance steps.

This is the spectacular entrance hall. Notice the organ pipes at the centre of the shot.

Greg dozed off while I explored.

Stained glass installation by Harry Clarke depicts the coronation of the Blessed Virgin, 

I was especially interested in going to the museum because it houses Salvador Dali’s Christ of St. John of the Cross, subject of a talk I gave for a course I took last winter at Huron University College.

An early photo of the painting

I was very eager to see what it was like in “real life.” 

Dali’s painting … very moving… a bit faded…

Apparently Dali used thin canvas and thin (if that is the right word) paint, so the colours have not stayed bright, but it was still a remarkable work of art:

noticed details … shadows on right hand like a nail…

overwhelming sadness…drooped head… yet amazing rejuvenation, strength in shoulder and arms.
Originally had more light around the edges of the shoulders.
Quite a number of people clustered around the painting while we were there. It still has power to draw viewers into its story.

Looking carefully, you could see the restoration after its vandalism.
In 1961, a visitor who thought the painting was sacrilegious, attacked it with a stone and tore the canvas with his hands. However, after a months-long restoration process, it was returned to public display: 
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christ_of_Saint_John_of_the_Cross

****

We walked the three blocks back to the Argyll Guest House and later had a delicious meal at the Butchershop Bar and Grill, apparently the best steak house in Glasgow. Lucky us. We blundered in there because we liked the decor, and we simply couldn't walk any further. We didn't have a reservation, but we were early and agreed that we could easily finish our meal before 7:30, when our table was reserved for another party. 

The steak was succulent beyond belief, although the goulash soup and the salad dressing were a bit bland (as was a lot of Scottish food no matter where we ate). Just needed a wee squeeze of lemon or more garlic ... Nevertheless, it was a grand meal to celebrate our successful navigation of Glasgow.

We discovered an odd idiosyncrasy of Scottish restaurant service, which repeated itself over and over until we finally clued in.  When the waitress asked us if we would like anything more, Greg said, "No, that's fine, thank you.' We expected the bill. That 's what usually happens here in Canada.  But no bill arrived. We waited ... and waited ... trying to get the attention of our server. Finally  in some distress, she  came over at 7:15, reminding us tactfully that we had agreed we could be away from the table by 7:30. "Yes, please bring us the bill."  So she did. 

We eventually got into the habit of saying "no more thanks please bring us the bill" all in one breath or we might still be in a pub in Scotland waiting, with cobwebs around our ankles.

Back to hotel ... walked... two blocks ...Crashed!! took Ibuprofen for aches... Slept well 9:30 to 5:30 (set alarm too early!)

We make our way through customs

Day 2: Tuesday,  September 6^th

Security: “We’re not after style” Problems with who is our contact person - very nice customs man ...

The quotation is an obscure reference scholars far in the future will spend ages deciphering. I can’t quite figure it out now.  In the first place, we were at customs, I believe, not security. You stood in line until invited to go forward to a wicket.  Couples could go together.  

I believe this comment was said in reference to Greg’s passport photo, which is not flattering. Greg remembers the customs official (a white-haired man with very blue eyes, like Peter O’Toole's – my memory), saying all he was after was “a resemblance… We’re not after style.” 

It was fortunate he had a sense of humour. 

On the plane, we had received little cards to fill out with our names and other information. One question stumped us: Who is your contact person in Scotland? We did not know a soul in the entire United (for now) Kingdom, aside from a couple who had moved to Eastbourne last spring. That is about as far away from Scotland as you can get without wading in the English Channel.

The conversation went something like this:

Customs: You haven’t filled in the answer to this question.

Me: No, we haven’t. [I have been told never to give any more information at border crossings than that which is asked for.]

Customs: Who is your contact in Scotland?

Me: Well, we don’t actually have one.

Customs: You don’t?

Me: No, although [to Greg]  I suppose we could name Cam and Dinah.  [To the customs guy] They live in southern England –  moved there last spring… but that’s kind of a long way away in case of an emergency.

Customs: I see.

[pause]

Customs: What are you doing in Scotland?

Me: We are touring in a large circle beginning here in Glasgow and then going to Fort William and maybe Maillaig, and then Inverness and up to the Orkney Islands, then back south to Nairn, then Edinburgh, Melrose and back to Glasgow.

Customs: I see and why are you doing this?

Me: Well, I am tracing my family tree; I have quite a few ancestors who came from various places in Scotland.

Customs: So you don’t have any family here.

Me: Well, not exactly… I might be a distant cousin  to the woman in the Orkneys who is going to guide us around the neolithic sites, but other than that they are pretty much just in cemeteries, I’m afraid.

Customs [in a resigned tone of voice]: I see. Well, where are you staying tonight?

Me: We’re booked into a hotel on ah ... I  can’t pronounce it … Sauchiehall Street. Just a sec. I have the name in my folder.

I reached into my black bag, pulled out my plastic folder for holding reservations, and found  the reservation sheet for the Argyll Guest House.  

His wrinkled forehead relaxed. He smiled, told us how to pronounce Sauchiehall, and suggested we really should plan on going to the Isle of Skye. He said he had never been there himself, but he heard it was wonderful. I said the train trip up there was supposed to be very scenic.

He wished us a good trip and that was that. We had officially arrived in Scotland.

And in case you are wondering about Sauchiehall:

While the correct pronunciations of this famous shopping street in the centre of Glasgow may well be more like "Saughiehall" (with a soft "gh" sound) you will find that from many Glaswegians it will sound more like "Suckiehall" Street. The name is derived from "saugh" the Scots word for a willow tree and "haugh" the word for a meadow (which was later corrupted into "hall"). Originally, it was a winding, narrow lane, with villas standing in gardens of about an acre or so. It was widened in 1846 and is now a mile-long, broad street, running in straight lines, from Buchanan Street in the east to Kelvingrove and the Museum and Art Galleries in the west.  http://www.rampantscotland.com/features/pronounce3.htm