Mexico v. South Africa

The morning (6/11) started a bit late: 10. Rough night.

With leftover banana bread and baguette, we hit up the Castle Rock and ended up scaling the back wall (sort of). At the same time we now have decisive proof as to why castles are a good way to keep bad guys out.

We went up to the castle, but at 15 pounds pp, it seemed too much. Instead we bought some delish local cheese, and a baguette + chorizo + cadbury fingers at a supermarket for consumption after our climb up Arthur's Seat. The walk was PHENOM and the views from the top really splendid. We had our well-earned lunch there and loafed about until 2 pm when it was time to get to a bar to watch... THE WORLD CUP.

THE WORLD CUP.

THE WORLD CUP.

This turned out to be more of a challenge than anticipated, as many Scot bars have those little tv's that belong in dorm rooms. While Jonathan is unfazed, Juan and I begin to swear that we would rather be in Florida and NJ (respectively) than Europe if it meant we could watch the game. Eventually, the situation goes downhill and Juan and I end up running up the Royal Mountain and down under the North Bridge to a sports bar called Sportsters. It did the trick. Accompanied by a U-19 soccer team from someplace in Scotland I have never heard of, two Israelis, a French/Italian identity-crisis victim, and a whole bunch of people who will be rooting for England tomorrow instead of the USA, we watched a limp Mexican team draw the gritty South Africans.

Soccer. World Cup. Did this sentence make you cry a bit?

It didn't matter that the bar had no local beers (unless Guinness counts, which it doesn't). It just matters that four years have passed and the World Cup is back.