Central Station to Renfrew

EDDIE got off the train and onto the platform of Central Station. He was pleasantly surprised that the station did not reek of piss.

He immediately felt a little embarrassed by this thought. Embarrassed by the fact that a small part of himself felt he accidentally signed him and his cousin up for a journey to a city that wasn’t worth the air and train fare.

Eddie had heard the stories of Glasgow from Granny. A Glasgow that was a bustling, hustling, industrial city based about building ships and train engines. It also sounded like a dirty, sooty, poor city. And as far as the boys could tell in the books they’ve read, it was a dirty, sooty, poor city. Sure, industrialization has passed, and there were a couple of years where “Glasgow: City of Culture” was not a sarcastic jibe. But it was still Glasgow.

When Eddie was first planning this trip, in early January, he told his closest friends at college. Each of them were perplexed by his choice. Glasgow? The city whose soccer fans riot a couple times a year? Why go there? Why not go to St. Andrews, or Skye, or Loch Ness, or basically anywhere else in Scotland?

But Glasgow was still a city, and it had been home to many people over the decades. And it had been home to their people. Granny’s parents. Granny’s people. Eddie and Matt’s people.

Well, some of their people, at least. The ancestors they shared. There was always a certain sense of confusion, as if the lead up to a joke, when a young man named Eddie Molinari, of Brentford, New Jersey, described Glasgow as the city of his ancestors.

But it was true, dammit. His Mom and his Aunt Julie were Campbell’s. Granny was a Robertson. Eddie had an attachment to the Molinari wing, full of standard Italian-American New Jersey types, the kinds who were very active in their local Catholic parish and attended the saint’s day festivals and gave money to UNICO. But his Italian grandparents had passed when he and his sister were very young. Ancestral identity isn’t just transmitted by DNA; it’s transmitted by stories and storytelling. And Granny told him how to feel about his Scottish family, told him stories of their ancestors. And it was powerful enough to withstand the years, and the loss of both women in his Scottish-American line.

But enough of all this. Eddie was back to thinking of the smell of Central Station. Matt was leading the way from the platform, through the main entranceway, and onto Hope Street. Eddie was running to catch up. He did pass a waste bin that reeked, but aside from that there was minimal stench to be found here. A good start.

“You even know where we’re going, dude?” Eddie joked.

“I’m the one paying for the hostel, remember? I better know.”

The two cousins headed out to the streetscape. Reddish sandstone buildings lined the whole avenue, some looking better and more well maintained than others. They surveyed the retail: an old school hotel and restaurant adjacent to the station, a Tesco, a pizza place (Matt gave a face of disgust for a split second at the thought of their quality), multiple betting shops, and an electronics store.

Matt pulled out his phone, and checked the direction of the hostel, which is on Renfrew Street.

“Maybe we should just get a cab. Looks to be about a mile northwest.”

“Sure.”

They head to the section of the street near the main Central Station entrance and hail a cab. They get into a black taxi, the kind both the boys always associate with stereotypical depictions of London, along with the Eye and Big Ben and phone boxes. But the cabs must have made their way to Scotland, for they got their luggage inside, told the driver the address and sped along.

This cab driver was not the safest man on the road, for he drove like his life depended on making it to Renfrew Street as soon as possible. They raced down Hope Street and made a left on Sauchiehall Street.

“Oh wait, we’re on the main drag of Glasgow now, Matt.”

“Buchanan?”

“Nah, that’s another street I think. East from here, maybe?”

The profile of the streets were consistent: the red, Victorian sandstone multi-story buildings dominating with the occasional more modern glass-based storefront poking out every block or so. The same mix of betting shops, small supermarkets, ethnic restaurants and struggling service storefronts as before.

It was a little hard for Eddie to imagine “Mum,” his great-grandmother, who died before he or Matt were even born but was the subject of so many family stories, walking down these streets as a young woman. What was here before the betting shops and the Tesco Express’s? Butchers, Bakers, grocers? Dark, damp pubs that women like Mum weren’t allowed in? Maybe an ocean liner’s office, the place where Mum and Granny’s father bought tickets to leave for New York?

They sped along in the cab, turning north to the Mackintosh building. This Eddie was vaguely aware of, from a tourist guide he’d read in preparation. The Mackintosh was an art school campus built by a renowned Scottish architect at the turn of the last century. It was one of the original modern architectural achievements; large windows and straight lines and slightly weird proportions.

They passed the building, and could see charred remnants. The greyish sandstone, sticking out in a sea of red, was blackened in so many spots. Behind the burnt facade one could see that the roof and the back of the structure was partially caved in. It looked as though no one had tried to save it. And no one seemed to want to repair it.

“What the hell happened here?” Matt asked.

“Fire last June.” said the cab driver, in a clearly Scottish brogue. “Just awful like, whole buildin’ so beautiful.”

“Last June?” Eddie was surprised. That was nine months ago.

“Why haven’t they repaired it? Or started at least?” Matt asked, also confused.

“Fire was so bad they just don’t know where to start. Too big a mess to fix now.” The driver got back to focusing on the road.

They soon passed the charred remains of this art school. Matt and Eddie didn’t say anything until they got to Renfrew Street and checked in.