Journey To The Open 2018 Photo Gallery Preview

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To understand why I'm carrying Travel Bear in a backpack along with a 40-pound duffel bag a million blocks from the Quaint Scottish Carnoustie Coach Park, then Over The Railroad And To The Open on The Final 2018 Day (Everybody Sing! GE knows the way, to carry the day, let's not forget some Gorse Hay, Yea!), you must understand that I was not raised to pack light. And for much of this historic day later at The Open, I carried Mom's messenger bag, which she claimed she lightened the night befTo understand why I'm carrying Travel Bear in a backpack along with a 40-pound duffel bag a million miles from the Quaint Scottish Carnoustie Coach Park, then Over The Railroad And To The Open on The Final 2018 Day (Everybody Sing! GE knows the way, to carry the day, let's not forget some Gorse Hay, Yea!), you must understand that I was not raised to pack light. And for much of this historic day later at The Open, I carry Mom's messenger bag, which she claimed she lightened the night before, but when questioned finally admits she only took out a few pamphlets and maps. I deduced this deception on her part having carried that bag a bit  Saturday till the end of play at The Open and through some of the beautiful, long, self same streets of Carnoustie, Scotland, leading back to the Quaint Coach Park.

It all started in New Jersey when I was 10-months-old on my first twin-engine airplane ride with Mom to go join Dad, who already was fly-fishing at their camp on the Miramache River in Canada. But That's Another Few Stories with Dad's great photos; He was a founder, officer and original member of CASE, The Committee on the Atlantic Salmon Emergency, whose officers also included Mr. Ted Williams, Mr. Bing Crosby, Mr. Marshall Field, and Mr. F. Rockwell Jr. Spoiler Alert: Mom did not pack light for my first flying fly fishing trip either, and neither did I, even at 10 months. I was an exceptional baby on many levels, including cuteness, happiness and laughter, heft, sweetness and intelligence, appetite, curiosity. ... But not light packing.

Anyhoo, This Open 2018 story started in St. Pete, Florida, U.S.A., over several weeks while my hand-me-down big suitcase sat propped open atop a chair for weeks in my boudoir as I assembled what would be the necessities for a three-day trip to Amsterdam, followed by a cruise around Great Britain culminating in attending The Open in Scotland, sailing on to Dover and of course Its Beautiful White Cliffs. Followed by return to port in Amsterdam, off the boat and onto a plane or two after our once in a lifetime trip - way, way, way easier said than done; Schipol Airport in Amsterdam was an adventure in itself, But That's Another Story - and back home to our little boy Italian dog Scoob E Dooby D Doge in St. Pete, Florida, U.S.A.

I do not like to waste vacation time on laundry, so in the valise already are obviously a dozen pairs of thick socks for sightseeing (I wear Rainbows on Sea Days), and 16 pairs of size medium Joe Boxer panties so I can wear the same few pairs of jeans, and several nice and soft, long sleeved La Perla Tees I got on sale ...

[*Now would be a good time to Note Amazon no longer will forward to us and our charities a small portion of any of my recommendations you purchase here by clicking on these links, unless we give them $40 a month: Thank you, but no, Amazon. And if you really sent me 8 pairs of yoga shorts with pockets, why do I have to keep ordering four? Where do those 4 pairs go? I don't want to do laundry every 4 days. I do wear everything I recommend, when I can find it. Please visit our Home Page if you'd like to make a PayPal Donation and join the Scoob Nation, Dooing Good and Having Fun. Thank you.*]

Mom's from New York City, and I'm from Jersey, but we've both basically lived in Florida since 1976. So as we're watching European PGA from Scotland the week before our July trip while it's routinely 100 degrees Fahrenheit here 'round noontime, and the announcers are going on about the sunny skies and balmy 73F weather in their Brilliant British accents making it sound ever so pleasant, we're looking at the white legs of nearly all the spectators there in shorts, skirts and kilts, and Mom and me both are thinking No Way. That's cold for us. (I am also silently thinking to myself, 'Gosh darn it, I'm going to do my best to learn English on this trip so I can speak Brilliant British too.' We always try to learn. )

Plus, we've watched The Open every year. There's always horizontal rain at least one day. We were happy to brave days of it ourselves when we wanted to see the sights of St. Andrews a few years back. And Mr. Dustin Johnson was none too pleased with the howling North Wind blowing his balls all about the St. Andrews Old Course greens Sunday at The Open before the R&A officials finally called it and stopped play in 2015. You can see Carnoustie from St. Andrews on a clear day, and no Scottish weather, no way, no how, is ever stopping our adventures.  

So into the suitcase go the ski pants, rain paints, and a pair of big rain pants for Mom and big ski pants for Mom because she's stubborn and won't pack this stuff for herself. Plus my backup pairs of Tom Ford Sunglasses along the top, with a GoPro Hero camera rigged for underwater duty, little black Coach purse that is like Snoopy's doghouse in that it miraculously holds everything in a very small space, and a strappy pair of black Manolos, all supported by a shelf of travel books on Great Britain and Ireland.

Dramatic Ironic Foreshadowing: I never wear the Manolos on the trip, and a fellow cruise passenger breaks the Hero case when I ask him for help because I just cannot get it Open and the battery is dead, despite me charging batteries for three cameras while packing. Good guy, his wife was a peach. A true delight to meet and in return for breaking the case, they gave me permission to use their wildlife photo safari pictures from Africa  which I will post. Thank you both again Reg and Judy!

Along the front of the suitcase go the flats, Rainbows, and sneakers all in plastic grocery bags; next camisoles; then thoughtfully chosen thought-provoking short sleeve t-shirts; black and gray long sleeve and thermal shirts; sweaters; shorts; mini-skirts; and jeans lined up to the aforementioned rain and snow pants.

The thick socks of which I spoke are stacked along the bottom of the suitcase, with lingerie, shorts, a long skirt, leggings and flannel tights, all neatly rolled up and tucked in. Also tucked in is a big ol' white plastic cylinder that used to be full of Baby Wipes but now only has a few in a Ziploc, along with the Clarisonic and Dad's shaver, and a big red pouffy ball of net for the showers, which will be daily with water in an actual shower! Yipee! A giant, clear, plastic bag holds smaller organized plastic bags of everything that can leak: 99% DEET, face & Lysol wipes, sunscreen, Chanel, lavender, Argan, Stop Pain spray, toothpaste, mascara, saline, Wen, etc. You know, necessities. Hope for The Best! Prepare for all the best and the worst.

Dresses are laid over the entire production, then the unmentionables I mentioned, a few bikinis, pantyhose and paperwork get placed in the big Zippered bag built into the inside of the lid of this case. I remind myself to be grateful of all this stuff and everything I do have under this roof of ours as I gaze upon the big black hump in the case and sigh and smile.

I Did IT! And it's only ... 3 a.m. What the F***? Maybe I should not have taken a break to watch Thor on the TV Room Big TV, but Chris Hemsworth, space, physics, special effects, Kenneth Branagh directing Anthony Hopkins as King of The Universe...

... I don't judge. It's never been my place to judge, never will be. You too might have taken a break to watch Thor.

Now to close and weigh this sucker. Sling it over to the bed, heavier than I thought. I hurl myself over the monstrosity and grab a zipper, tuck, zip, tuck, pat, press and mash down the front, tuck, zip and eventually I'm done and ready to weigh this baby.

Now it really feels heavier than 50 pounds. Mom graciously loaned me her suitcase scale before she went to bed oh those so many hours ago.

So, HEAVE. And ... What the F***? 20 pounds overweight? Are you kidding me right now, at 3:20 a.m. And by the way, a heartfelt thank you Pandora Tom Petty GE Music streaming through my phone app because I couldn't have gotten this far without you.

But I am going to listen to your inspiring Pandora of music as I unpack only until 4 a.m. And then I am getting 2 hours sleep, dagnabit. Because I deserve it.

Spin that big bag around, slide it toward the headboard, and Scoob E gets to share his bed with us. Scoob graciously agrees and goes back to sleep. He was the first of us to hit the rack.

Unzip and out go the Chanel (I'll only smell pretty in airports and airplanes. Good enough for me), Imodium, Pepto, Tums Trifecta because I know Mom has them. And I know she has an extra 5 pounds and room in her suitcase. This is vital intel at this point, although Mom will put up a fight about those 5 pounds. Best to deal with it at Tampa International - No Fighting Allowed; not like Chicago in Airplane!, one of the best movies, with the best fight scenes ever, and I understand Robert Stack beat up all those religious people at the airport in one take. Genius. Kudos all around. 

Clothes and toiletries are unpacked and neatly stowed and I zip her up again and she's 55 pounds and it's 4:05 a.m. I go to sleep and will deal with the extra 5 pounds, among other things, upon awaking. Apparently they do make a 6 a.m. How 'bout that. It will never catch on as the start of the day in our house.

Except everything hurts from all that packing, lifting, life, so no position is restful because every position hurts. I sleep through the alarm, of course. Scoob is no help. He enjoys sleeping and is good at pouting, and has been great at it lately because he still thinks he doesn't want Mom and me to go. He's a smart little guy too. He's known we're going for days, poor little bugger. I'm not sure I want to go either. But that's another story.

Scoob will have a great time with many friends: a bird, three cats, two dogs and two to three or so super humans. I just have to pack Scoob and his belongings into Mom's car, pick up his refill at the vet, and write up detailed instructions for the care and feeding of our beloved little Prince on the way to his own adventure. But That Is Yet Another Story, Also With Delightful Photos.

I finish two pages on The Care and Feeding of  Scoob in the driveway of his new Doge vacation palace, and hand them over with a thank you very much and we will miss you and we love you. It would be more difficult and emotional, but I'm sleep deprived on auto pilot doing everything all at once, none of it excellent. But I'm Dooing Good and Having Fun, as Scoob would say.

When we get home, Mom is anxious to help with my unpacking as the shuttle to the airport will arrive in a 30 minute window rapidly approaching. I ask her to doublecheck the suitcase weight.

"It's not 5 pounds overweight, it's 15!," Mom exclaims. Ohhhhh, she wails, throws her hands up in the air, and exits dramatically saying she has things to do. Just as well. Me too, with things to do.

Clothes are now flying out of the suitcase toward neatly stacked piles around the room. Another Blonde Moment as our chariot arrives. I swear I don't do this on purpose. I was born Blonde and still am. I had in no way mastered being an adult when I realized soon I would have to figure out how to be old, and take care of Mom, who is even older. I am in no way prepared for that.

And I'm as prepared for this trip as time allows. It is good to go to the airport after rush hour. Crossing Tampa Bay, U.S.A., is always beautiful. Usually I see dolphins, but today I am chatting away with our driver about his home in Cuba and charging my Citizen EcoDrive Hawk watch in the sunshine after it read the same 11:20 hour for months in the dark on my nightstand. (No wonder I'm behind my times.) He was pleased to learn Mom and I had visited three Cuban ports, including one near his hometown. But that's another story with many photos.

We give our driver a muchas gracias, relatively breeze through a quiet TIA to a sumptuous lunch of burgers, sweet potato fries, water and bloody marys, and fly off to a relatively easy gate change at Dulles in Our Nation's Capitol, Washington, D.C. Finally I would get some sleep. I have not yet begun to tell you how heavy my hand-me-down, wheeless, carry on duffel bag is with my backpack, camera and back up cameras with lenses, chargers, cards and gear, Travel Bear, waterproof Ariat riding boots, a Little Black Dress moved due to overweight finally checked, so the Manolos as well, and all the Pills, Pills, Pills, Pills (Imagine Boris Karloff as The Grinch saying it. I'll bet Jim Carrey can imagine that.). Plus a few of the skinnier guidebooks and some healthcare.gov paperwork, my aviation romance novel, Einstein's Theory of Relativity, Mark Twain's Innocents Abroad, which is not a light book, in case I couldn't sleep, sleep mask, skinny, stretchy, comfy jeans with pockets, panties and t-shirt for new outfit in case we're stuck somewhere like we were in Quito, Ecuador (Yet Another Story With so many Photos. Yea Darwin and the HMS Beagle!), plus a clear bag full of tiny versions of all the necessary and various sundries in the checked Big Bag in the belly of this beast flying us across the ocean to Amsterdam.

I snuggle into my seat with the wool coat I've been wearing since the mid-to-high 80s Fahrenheit of mid-morning Florida, kick off my blue suede boots, grab a skinny guidebook from the small library I've assembled in the seat pocket in front of me, snap a few photos, fluff my pillows, transform my plastic covered blankets into lumbar support, and click the seat belt around Travel Bear (TB for short) in my lap.

Smiling, I turn to see my Mom arrive with a clear lane in front of her to the back. As she's wearing a long raincoat, I unclick, spring to the aisle, and offer to help her out of it. She declines and I head to the restroom, hoping it's not too late to do so in socks.

It's not! Yea! And I can do a few leg and arm stretches and still make it up the clear one-way aisle to my seat. Except everyone's sitting so I must keep my head on a swivel because the back of their heads all look alike, but it's too dim and my new contacts feel funny. Instead I check the seat number on the boarding pass I got to hold because Mom and I were in different Boarding Groups, saunter up the aisle, grab earbuds out of the backpack in the duffel in the bin overhead for Mom and me, climb over her, rearrange my Lumbar, neck and bladder support, click the seatbelt on back over TB, turn to Mom and smile.

Mom looks at me me and says, "What?"

"Nothing. I'm just happy and grateful to be here. Thank you again. Here's some earbuds so we can start watching the movies." And then I kiss her and plug in her earbuds. Then I plug in mine and realize I won't be getting much sleep after all. I haven't been to a movie in ages and all the movies I've wanted to see are right on the screen in front of me. Imagine that. What Times in which we live I would tell Einstein and Twain, if they could jump out of that seat pocket in front of me.

As one of the very few people on electricity-equipped Earth who hasn't yet seen The Black Panther, it was a fairly easy choice, but a fun one. I haven't yet seen the new Thor (waiting to see it on Big TV in our TV Room Terrarium at home. We also have available 2018 Academy Award Winner The Shape Of Water, along with its fellow nominees Three Billboards, LadyBird, Call Me By Your Name and hundreds or thousands of older and newer movies and television shows. Mom picks that good newish Winston Churchill movie and settles in. Neato.

From the map screen I take a few photos of the little plane and our overseas start stats, then switch the screen and finally begin to learn the lore of The Black Panther. But we're just getting off the ground, so there's lots of interruptions for announcements, and my that beverage cart came up quick. I pause my movie to listen in on the selection of refreshments going on up ahead. I think I hear beer and wine are free.

Do you want a drink, my treat, Mom asks me. Yes please, say I.

Beer before liquor,

Never sicker.

Liquor before beer,

Never queer.

I go with one of those cute little bottles of vodka, can of tonic, glass of ice with lime and straw, and glass of ice water because Gosh knows when I'll see this lovely flight attendant again. I give Mom my cracker snack and we toast to our Bon Voyage! It's nice just the two of us alone in our row. We are having a grand time. And apparently dinner time is right after drinks because here comes the beverage cart again up the aisle, followed by a much bigger cart full of food.

I tell Mom I think beer and wine are free on this flight, but she doesn't believe that's true anymore except in first class. The flight attendant backs me up, and Mom gets another cocktail along with a wine and more water to accompany her dinner.

I get another water, and a beer which I think is no longer imported since we're over International Waters, to go with dinner, which actually tastes pretty good, I swear! Another toast!

After dinner I finally finish The Black Panther. I'd like to see that again, big. Mom is already halfway through the newish Christopher Robin movie. I feel the need for a good laugh and delve into the classic comedy collection choices. I watch a few minutes of a classic I know by heart just for the sake of watching Airplane! on an airplane.

Then I switch to The Blues Brothers, hoping the music will put me to sleep since I've seen this classic so many times as well. But it's been a while, and I forgot about all the great car chases. Still no sleep, but snuggled in with Travel Bear, Mom and plenty of beer on a grand adventure so I'm great and grateful.

Mom asks me for the Brussels (Our first cruise port of call after Amsterdam) guidebook, and tells me she's going to read a bit in an effort to get to sleep. Good plan: One of us should get some sleep.

Apparently The Blues Brothers DO lull me to sleep too, because I am definitely awakened by our Captain telling us he's going to turn up the lights so the breakfast cart can come through. The screen in front of me is frozen on what at the time was the largest car crash in movie history. How did I sleep through that? Anyway, yea! On go my boots, I crawl over Mom and chasse to the restroom and order now Domestic Beer for breakfast as it's about 6:30 a.m. Amsterdam time. 

Our magical journey is about to begin! In Amsterdam! Where we board a Ship! And Cruise Around Great Britain! To Edinburgh where our Coach transports us to The Open In Carnoustie! With free beer! Magical! Mom, Travel Bear and I take a moment to be grateful before breakfast, and again as the wheels touch down. Onto our magical adventure!  

Ah, Amsterdam. That's a whole 'nother story and pictorial of beyond beautiful canals, architecture and people. I will divulge it involves me saying Out Loud "I've gotta get a photo of my Mom carrying weed into our hotel" (which happened to be a wonderfully converted old shipping company with lots of marble, wood and gems of people). 

Our Cruise was as magical as Amsterdam, but That is so many other stories with so many other photos. First and of foremost Importance about our cruise are the many different nice people we met, including our three cruising golf professionals, who taught us quite a bit. North West Golf Academy Director and British PGA Pro Steve Perry taught us that if you qualify for The Open, you get excused from being in the wedding party for the second marriage of your Dad, British PGA Pro of more than 40 years Kevin Parry. They take their golf seriously over here. It's the birthplace of golf, for gosh sakes.

And from our cruising PGA Pro Andy Duncan, who also is PGA Secretary for Lancashire County, England, and a Tournament Rules Official and Master Club Builder, I learn The R&A doesn't care how big of a backpack or any bag we want to carry into The Open, nor do they care about my dinky Digital SLR camera or the backup cameras. I show him the list of everything prohibited on the back of the Golf Schedule our Cabin Attendant Gustii kindly left at our door. Mr. Andy takes a cursory look, hands it back and says I'm fine.I doublecheck on Travel Bear, producing him from my backpack and introducing him to Mr. Andy. 

Travel Bear came from the Channute, Illinois, United States Air Force Base Gift Shop. They've got a Hustler among the aircraft in their museum there, if you can imagine the immenseness of this agile military jet and a hangar big enough to hold it, as well as an exhibit telling the sad tale of how the local town gouged military families during the War. After I liberated Travel Bear from that gift shop decades ago, he's been with me on every trip except one: While I drove from Washington state to Oregon, he went with other friends by motorcycle to the Arctic Circle. Travel Bear also crossed the Equator on our Galapagos cruise, saw my Dad's homeland when we all visited Slovenia, then Venice again, and cruised a host of Caribbean islands, including Cuba! But those are all entirely different stories with tens of thousands of photos, I'd bet. Maybe Travel Bear should have his own book too. ... 

So Travel Bear is now good to go with us to The Open. We're all very excited, truly blessed. It's difficult to imagine this cruise getting better after Amsterdam, Bruges in Belgium, East Kinsale, Dublin and the Copper Coast of Ireland, plus all the fun, food and festivities we've enjoyed so far on board ship, with Wales via Liverpool, England, and The White Cliffs Of Dover yet to come ...   

I also learned on our last day aboard from Mr. Andy that the Copper Bracelet made in Devon, England, that Mom bought for me at the train station gift shop near a babbling brook in Wales will work at least 1% or more toward easing the hand cramps that notetaking and the SLR with the big lens have inflicted upon me. And the green on the bracelet and my wrist? Well it's all part of the magic of it, isn't it, Mr. Andy said. Could be more of a help, if you believe in that sort of thing, and after all, Seve did endorse them and they were all the rage back then, Mr. Andy told me. Awwww, Senor Seve, I replied and sighed. Oh Seve and his Power of Positive Thinking. He might have been a magician when he was teaching himself how to hit balls on his beach in Spain, but he grew into an actual worldwide living legend at a time when few were. When I try to explain to people what makes golf more than magical, beyond the beautiful vistas, volunteers, locals, charities, tour staffs and players, I always mention the impossible shots through the years especially of Mr. Arnold Palmer, Jack Nicklaus, Seve Ballesteros, Phil Mickelson and Tiger Woods. Even non-golf fans know for sure that these athletes have been well worth watching. And today's PGA is even more astounding, on both sides of The Pond. 

Mr. Andy also teaches me the only new English phrase I learned the whole trip to add to my vast vocabulary of Brilliant, Spot of Bother, Pint, Bangers and Mash, Chips, Crisps, Knackered and Wanker: "Daft As A Broom," or "Daft As A Brush," which I immediately knew I should have written down because I actually don't know which one of them means Zany and Wacky. And I So Wanted To Learn English On This Trip. 

Mr. Andy suggested I get an assistant to write everything down and take photos for me. I told him I couldn't afford an assistant, especially after this Once IN A Lifetime Trip. But maybe I could get an intern, who ideally could lift even heavier things, have an encyclopaedic and practical knowledge of all facets of modern technology, and be taller than 5'11". I can say that in this #MeToo era because I just literally do not like talking down to people. The one other question I had for Mr. Andy was did he have an extra pair of rain or ski pants with him. It turns out the extras I packed for Mom were both my size, and Mom would not fit in them, and I want to be prepared for any weather The Open has in store for us.

Alas, Mr. Andy has nothing like that with him. But the good news, he tells me, is beautiful weather is predicted. We'll see, I reply, as historically that has not happened much, or ever? Well, maybe. We can hope. Mr. Andy asks if there's anything else he can do for me and I remember that Mom and I are quite the fans of Sir Nick Faldo and his smooth broadcasting and golfing, so it would be nice to meet him. Mr. Andy suggests Sandy Lyle would be better to meet. I told him that would be lovely, as Mom and I already briefly met Mr. Lyle after he was inducted into the World Golf Hall of Fame in St. Augustine, Florida, U.S.A. I offered to buy Mr. Lyle a congratulatory drink with me and Mom, and he said, "Where have you been all night?" And I said, "Here at the Induction Ceremony." And then the elegant, tall, white-haired Hall of Famer was whisked away by quite a large entourage of much shorter, younger men who could only aspire to look as dapper in suits that said serious business. So it would be nice for Mom and me to see Mr. Lyle again because we never did buy him that drink, I tell Mr. Andy. He laughs and says he'll do his best.

Mr. Andy asks if I don't have any swing or putting questions for him, as he is a PGA Pro. He is astonished to learn Mom and I don't play golf. I can see the Pro is Puzzled so I explain: When I was little, my Dad, occasionally on weekends, maybe weekdays, would play golf with clients of the Insurance Agency he owned in our hometown in New Jersey. Mom and I would play miniature golf on our summer vacations to Florida, and I usually would win. But every weekend when we were home in New Jersey, if golf was on television, then that's what we watched. Sad to say, this was back in the day of big wooden cabineted TVs equipped with dials to change the channels. We had three couches in the TV room, and my parents each stretched out on one to relax with golf. When their eyes were closed, I would quietly approach the TV, sit down in front of it, and click its knob to one or two of the other maybe five channels we had at the time in the tri-state area. And then, always one or both of my parents would say, "Don't change that. I'm watching that." I don't know how many weeks or months I tried changing the channel during golf before I finally gave up, gave in and became a fan. I still enjoy putt putt, and love driving golf carts, but years of watching Pro Golf on TV, and reading Hi & Lois and Blondie comic strips have taught me that if those PGA Golf Pros on tour can't make that magic happen on a weekly basis, what hope is there for us mere mortals? 

Mr. Andy laughs, and I thank him for his time, excuse myself and head off to escort Mom to our Sea Day Friday Wine Blending Event, before an afternoon of Open golf on our cabin telly. 

And that is how when the alarm went off at 5 a.m. in prep for breakfast delivery shortly thereafter, I ended up hungover, waiting for my restroom turn with fuzzy memories of how much Mom and me DO NOT enjoy red wine, except for Sangria and pink champagne; Mom and I prefer Proseco. And when in the British Isles, I prefer dark beer. Thank goodness there is a bottle of Proseco in our mini-fridge. I drink a small glass quickly and immediately feel better. I pour another small one as I wait for mom to emerge. 

I take the A.M.pills on my nightstand, attempt to make a vat of protein shake in our ice bucket and slug it down as I wait. I get Travel Bear out of bed into my backpack, along with the extra camera batteries and iPhone from the chargers, making sure also there are the ski hats, 4 gloves, rain paints, my big black plastic leaf/laundry bag just in case for Mom, scarves, St. Andrews baseball hat, Tom Ford sunglasses, and extra camera batteries and cards.I put on my Citizen Eco Nighthawk Watch, Star Wars spinning ring and Green Dominican Republic Amber Heart Pendant I got on another Epic Cruise, which gratefully granted Many Other Epic Stories And Photos. I grab my flannel tights, compression socks, thick socks, jeans and camisole and head for the restroom to brush my teeth and take a quick shower, rub down with the cruise's fine Vitamin E moisturizer, stain lips, Wen mist of tea tree oil, then sunscreen, a cloud spray of DEET, a spritz of Wen lavender, a brush through my hair and I'm ready to dress for Breakfast 2, which I'm sure already has arrived. 

Yea! Of Course Breakfast Has Arrived! Hash browns and corned beef hash will soak up any remnants of that red wine, and eating in bed makes it ever so much more delicious. I wolf it down, along with some fresh fruit, so I can get into the restroom to brush my teeth and reapply lip stain before Mom takes over the tiny room. Then I get on my long sleeve super soft La Perla shirt, short sleeve Open shirt Mom and Dad got me for Christmas, a bit of makeup, then lace up my waterproof boots and sip protein shake from the ice bucket and wait. I lay my cashmere sweater and BCBG Max Azria raincoat over my backpack and start my American Yoga sequence: Hands up against the wall and stretch those calves. Mom emerges from the restroom and asks if I'm ready. You Bet! On With The Show! 

No one else is in the halls of the ship at this hour, and we're aft, so I do a John Cleese Funny Walk to the elevators where I proceed to stretch out my thighs. Mom arrives as the elevator doors open to no one inside. I've taken many photos from these glass elevators through the middle of the ship: library, spa, indoor pool, giant Tree! I've never seen it this empty, like a spooky Scooby Doo ghost ship. I take a few more photos. We arrive at the casino level where we are to meet our excursion group. We are early and get Group 1 stickers. I express my delight as I have never been in a Group 1! Neato! We head into a small auditorium to await the rest of our groups. 

I take the seat behind Mom, place my camera on the bar and backpack on the stool, and resume stretching. By the time I'm done, I've moved my backpack so an older lady could sit, and the room is nearly full of golf fans, and the three pros. American Yoga: Done. Finally we all move out to the next leg of our journey, a double-decker boat to Port Edinburgh, where our coach awaits to take us the 2-3 hours north to The Open at Carnoustie. 

Our Open Group winds its way through the ship, each of us checking out with Security to whom I wish a Magandang Umaga, Filipino for Good Morning. They all return my greeting and my smile. I help Mom down the stairs, over the gangway and we settle into some front row seats. Still I am smiling, so thankful as I take it all in. Mom is less enchanted at this moment due to the damp chill o' the misty morn' of the Scottish Seas. I'm positively naughty nautical thrilled! I set my backpack on the seat and fly up the stairs to the great wide open top deck. 

Still smiling, I take some photos of Bonnie Ol' Edinburgh. I've never seen it from the sea. It's surreal, with the hues of grays in the sky, the mist in the distance, the lighthouse and castles ashore. A fellow traveler breaks my reverie as we get underway. 

"There goes an hour's worth of work on my hair," she says. 

"Are you kidding?," I reply with a smile. "Women in Hollywood pay teams of people hundreds of dollars an hour to get this windblown look. It's all the rage today. You look great!"

"Thank you," she says as a smile lights up her face. This is when I learned we all weren't golf fans. She was going to The Open because her husband wanted to go, and she was looking forward to seeing Edinburgh the next day. That's super supportive, I say as we chat. I bid her farewell and head back down as we approach shore. I wonder if any of these people have done the reading. No one else seemed to be stretching before our near 3-hour tour to Carnoustie. And the 7,402 yard Carnoustie Golf Links may be a 4.20-mile walk if you hit it on the fairways and greens inside the ropes, but our Open group will be taking a much, much, much more circuitous route. I am the least judgmental person you ever will meet so I'm not judging - I'm just somewhat concerned for our group as they are almost all skewed toward bigger numbers in age. Maybe they all did their own version of American Yoga back in their cabins....   

I stretch my calves again on the bottom rung of the ladder, take a seat across from Mom and snap some photos. It is very difficult to capture the elusive Mom on film, but I've done it and I'm grinning. Mom is not. It's funny how much she looks like her Hungarian Dad with that sourpuss. A jet on final approach to Edinburgh Airport distracts everyone and I capture their captured attention in photos too. It's nice to see everyone engrossed in the magnificence of Edinburgh. It's got TWO Castles with astounding churches, neat eateries and closes, many shops, and pubs full of unfailingly friendly people, and later, mostly talented musicians playing all kinds of interesting instruments as well!

Today we will spend a bit of time in the harbour admiring Edinburgh's lighthouse and gray sea and skies. I learn Group 1, as well as Groups 2 and 3, get to wait for another boatload to arrive and fill up our caravan of three coaches. As Mom and me are sitting in the front of the coach, we hear the coach driver and our tour guide discussing developments, unlike the woman across the aisle asking loudly, Why don't we just go! You cannot learn if you are not listening, I have learned, so I like to listen a lot and learn. 

The stragglers in our Open group arrive on another boat, board their coach and our merry little band is off. My backpack and Travel Bear are on my lap and my camera is pointed out the coach window. This is why I wanted to ensure the R&A wouldn't object to my digital SLR camera. This Canon T3i model has a wealth of modes of shooting choices, but the only one that ever seems to work for me is action sports, which looks like a stick figure running on its dial and that's what we're tuned in to mostly. So as we're winding through Edinburgh along the North Sea, I am shooting a stop motion type of movie in hundreds of photos. I love to watch all those sequences at home on our Big TV with our little family. Dad loved Slovenia as he did most of the driving there which required real attention to the roads and traffic allowing for little sightseeing, except for Mom calling dibs and thoroughly enjoying maneuvering us up, down, and hairpin 'round the Julienne Alps, alas another story in great memories and photos. 

We thread our way through Edinburgh's port, like so many others a mix of very old and very new construction, some so new it's still underway with only scaffolding visible. Even the new construction looks old - I've always wanted a turret so I'm happy to see someone still builds them. I'm also happy to see they still have fishmongers, as Mom and I have sung many times about Irish fishmongers, and we both love fish. I'm grateful to see a bit of blue, pink and white looking like it might overtake the deep purple to light gray of the sky. The sea is still quite gray as we motor past grand old stone homes behind high old stone walls with a bit o' green ivy growing, then a commercial block with stone stores at ground level and multi-fireplaced, multi-story living quarters above. A blue banner heralds the sale of the Evening News and The Scotsman, Scotland's National Newspaper, at News Express. Good on you Scotland, still reading newspapers.

Some of the windows may be newer, but the buildings themselves are thousands of years old. As we proceed north through Edinburgh, we see a beautiful tall brick church with stained glass windows small and tall along the top, flanked by big, ancient, lush green trees. Trees of all shapes and sizesGaelic line the road in brilliant hues of green and brown. A clock atop a modern building reads 8 a.m. It's a University or Museum because it's got a planetarium, but our tall, dashing, guide cannot stretch the microphone cord to his seat and has given up trying to tell us about the sites we're seeing. A quiet ride can be nice, too, although I cannot get enough of the accent here. 

Around a roundabout and we're back to old stone walls holding up lush lawns leading to even older and more beautiful stone architecture.The Scots also know how to build fine bridges. The coast is resplendent with magnificent bridges, old and new, all leading to the most wondrous destinations, like St. Andrews, the birthplace of links golf with ruins from the days when the game first was played along its wide, white, wonderful beaches yearning for visitors who enjoy a dark beer on the soft sand, which is yet another blessed story with many photos for another day.

Round a few more roundabouts and we are cutting across the Relentlessly Beautiful Scottish Countryside. Heather lines the highway, but when you're so happy to be not driving the pavement is nearly invisible, melting into the greens, browns and golds patchwork of rolling hills with babbling brooks and bigger, all which look to be good trout streams and a great reason to visit again with our fly rods. Out of nowhere will appear an ancient short stone wall stretching up and down the hillsides to the horizon. Always I am on the lookout for monolithic rocks, Standing Stones, the most famous is arguably Stonehenge. As much as Mom and I love wood, heh heh, we love stones. And our tour guide in Wales, as well as the History, Discovery and Smithsonian channels on TV back home, all say no one knows exactly why were these giant rocks revered, but by their positioning in regard to planets, the sun and celestial events, they sure as shoot were somehow significant. So I look out for them on all our coach trips with my head on a swivel. 

[Spoiler Alert: We DO see one of these monolithic stones on this journey. I am unsure if I captured it with my camera.]

Other people are chatting, sleeping, looking.This is our second trip to Scotland and I am truly grateful, but I honestly cannot get enough of this Relentlessly Beautiful bonnie country. I'd very much enjoy a home here like Miss Agatha Christie's estate in Devon, England. Ideally my Scottish Castle would of course have: turrets; a ballroom; several parlors and a library; maybe a bridge depending on the cliff; fireplaces, bedrooms and restrooms galore resplendent in fine woods, stone carvings and other art; great views of the sea, mountains and countryside from halfway up a gently sloping cliff leading to a wide, white, sandy beach deserted but for the varied and very beautiful wildlife; ideally a stream full of trout would meander through the property as well; game will have the run of the place; and do peacocks live in Scotland? They're beautiful too. I would write about adventures in Scotland as long as the staff in my fairy tale castle includes a tech wizard. Then we all would live happily ever after.

Now I am thrilled to watch the Relentlessly Beautiful Blessed Scottish hills roll by again. Each farmhouse is a learning experience. Some are on great lochs. Small towns also dot the lochs, each with its own amazing ancient cathedral. A series of bridges old and new span the lochs; stone arches built into hillsides support an old railway bridge, a newer suspension bridge looks like a 3-masted Tall Ship that in the overcast seems to be sailing down the loch. Super surreal morning this is. Gliding past signs like Denhead of Gray, Rewind Scone, Ewart's Tayside, and still I haven't learned English, or Scottish, or Code if they're pranking the tourists, since we are driving the Coastal Tourist Route on our way to The Open. But I'm looking and learning and being all kinds of grateful.  

A few herds of cattle here and there are well outnumbered by the many flocks of sheep grazing the hills. On our first trip to Scotland, we drove ourselves around the country, putting us much closer to lamb-eye level. Mom loves lamb, but I never ordered any on that trip after staring into their cute little faces and fluffy wool that reminded me of Scoob E back home. But I did every morning eat haggis, the Scottish delicacy of sheep's stomach stuffed with liver, kidneys and onions. ... from our castle hotel in Dingwall, home of the self-proclaimed best haggis shop in the world, to the Old Course Hotel in St. Andrews, to our gorgeous garden hotel in Edinburgh. But that's another story entirely of why I'll likely never again drive in Scotland, with at least 10 good haggis photos and a million more reasons for gratitude ...

I spy the Bridge to Dundee, where our driver lives, and he drives us through coastal towns out to Carnoustie on roads I wouldn't have guessed would accommodate a coach, much less a caravan of three. A short drive past slightly smaller stone houses much closer together and at sea level afford views of marvelous gardens behind stone walls, and here we are at The Back Gate Of The Open!

However, the queen of The Open parking dressed like a mall cop informs our driver we are to head back to the Coach Park where we are to disembark and walk "only 10 minutes" back to The Open Gate. Can't I just let these people off, implores the driver. The blue-clad queen gives us the blue news that alas, NO, because our bus has a Silver Open card and only the buses with Purple Open cards may debark here and we must therefore move along to the Coach Park. By all means, I tell Mom, because we wouldn't want things to get impolite. And I wanted to see more of Carnoustie all along since we missed it on our first visit here, and had been worried we wouldn't have the opportunity. 

But wow. This is a lot of beautiful small historic town to see. ... On the way to a golf match we really want to see. So off to the commoners car park we go. "Welcome to Carnoustie - A Fairtrade Town" the sign near the roundabout had read. And they meant it. Literally. 

I wonder if people from Carnoustie visit Florida to see our wild unkempt jungles as we make sure to appreciate the tidy, orderly, stunning gardens of the British Isles. Do Brits marvel at Florida's Trailer Park to New Money McMansion architecture I ponder as I try to puzzle out why every top story window here has above it four, three or two chimneys, and why some tiny stone houses have three sets of stacks. How cold does it get here? Are all these structures retrofitted with central heat, and is the heat on now? Because no smoke is puffing out of any of those chimneys. Frankly I cannot believe nearly every volunteer, official and spectator we see are wearing shorts. Their HDTV white legs Really pop in person.This would be the third straight day of beautiful weather at The Open, almost unheard of. The locals walking their dogs, and our marching coach caravan,  also are wearing longpants, jackets and hats. So it's not just us. It's brisk!

At the end of the road we climb a narrow set of stairs up to the walkway over the railroad tracks and down to the links leading to The Open Admission Gate. Mom might have mentioned at dinner, breakfast, on the ship-to-shore boat, bus and just now that we're headed first to The Open Gift Shop. Which is why I used the loo on the bus. And thank goodness too for we have another long walk ahead, starting with what Open Champion Paul Lawrie calls the "short" 465 yard Par 4 Hole 10. We might already have walked three of the 7,402 yard Par 71 links on our way from The Open Coach Park, but I never was a good judge of distance and my phone is in no position to be a pedometer, nor do I really care beyond a mild curiosity how far we've walked because we're grateful just to be here. I wish Dad could have made it but he's in my backpack on his prayer card,  being protected by Travel Bear back there as well.

I spot the Barry Burn and point it out to Mom. The Burn snakes to the historic hotel in the distance guarding the Green of the 499 yard Par 4 Hole 18 made infamous in 1999 as worldwide people like my parents and me watched but really did not want to see Monsieur Jean Van de Velde lose The Open the way he did to Mr. Paul Lawrie at Carnoustie. Wow. Wow to the infinityith power. Super surreal and simply super to be heading there ahead of the players vying for Champion Golfer of This Year. The big clock upon the wall says 10:30 a.m. Mom and I take many photographs here as we seem to have The 18th nearly all to ourselves. Nifty. I float over to the Drop Zone. Who knows which golfers might find their way into this DZ this year. I can't help but stand and stare across the Barry Burn to the Final Green and think about what might have been and what is. 

Mom breaks my reverie, suggesting we should get our shopping done so we can go watch golf. Big Clock says we've been absorbing 18 at The Open for 15 minutes. Silently, reluctantly, I step out of our special moment across 18 Fairway along the Barry Burn toward the 460 yard Par 4 17 Tee, and around to the 396 yard Par 4 First Hole of The Open! Holy mackerel sapphire, Herr Bernhard Langer is headed right for us! With Senor Rafa Cabrera Bello behind him on his way to work! Neato. 

And we have found the crowds as well. We cross the First Fairway en masse and the crowd disperses in seemingly all directions. We trek toward the most fantastical Spectator Village, where Senor Cabrera Bello now towers 50' tall on The Giant Screen over an audience relaxing in giant beanbags and at least a hundred picnic tables outside The Open Arms, which for me is impossible to believe until I see it, but cannot Open to sell beer and cocktails until 11 a.m. On to The Shop we go.  

The Open is for sale in countless forms, at Open Prices, as far as the eye can see in a space that could hangar most of the players' jets. Mom needs Open coins for gifts and I just want a few for me, and she spots The Open Teddy Bears as well. We have at home a St. Andrews Open Bear from our visit there a few days in a rainy October 2014 with one bright, sunny, sandy day before the coming 2015 Open, but that's a different magical tale for which we're grateful. Also gracing our shelves at home, from our 2014 trip, in a blue box lined with white satin emblazoned with a gold crest that originally held a massive sapphire and diamond Princess Diana engagement ring I picked up at Holyrood Castle in Edinburgh that since has cruised with me through The Caribbean and is now secured in our cabin offshore the Palace from whence it came, is a bejeweled blue ball marker from The Open 2015. Naturally I secure a diamond-encircled white Open ball marker for 2018, as well as a few plastic and metal markers, and the best looking friend for Travel Bear, who ends up being liberated from the bottom shelf of The Great Wall Of Open Bears, which already has a huge gap in the middle. And we could use a shot glass back on board so I grab one of those as well. And that's more than enough to make me thankful.

Mom asks for an assist at The Great Walls Of Open Hats for our mailman back home. Jeepers. You have never seen so many hats in so many styles but for perhaps in a humongous haberdashery. Do they still have those here? Surely they must somewhere in Great Britain. James Bond outfitted himself on Saville Row is all I know. I also know that our mailman rocks his government issued Pith helmet when delivering mail back home, so he'll look good in anything. That narrows it down. ... I look for something that really clearly says 147th Open at Carnoustie, but not a top shelf hat because we are not royalty. As God as my witness, among the hundreds of hats and helmets and visors, oh my, there is only One baseball cap in our reach that clearly says Carnoustie Open 2018. Huzzah! I turn down Mom's offer to buy me a hat as I'm wearing a St. Andrews cap and it's tough to top that topper. 

Normally Mom and I love to shop, especially for others. But we are at The Open for Golf, so we weave our way through the densely packed delightful displays, under the regal tapestry-like tartans emblazoned with Carnoustie's Open Crest, to the queue for the registers.We follow the velvet rope line to a most cheery-o cashier, who suggests we try for a tax refund outside when Mom realizes the MasterCard that would get us 10% off here is back on board ship. The VAT fellow informs us Americans get their tax refund at the airport, or by using a handy envelope we can stuff with all the receipts and mail to Slovakia when we get home. I thank him for the envelope and we stop by UPS to find out if they ship anything, or just Open merchandise, and guess what, they'll ship just about anything. Huzzah cubed! We'll be doing a bit of packing tonight of souvenirs, snow pants, sundry and laundry for shipping tomorrow.

Mom picks up shells and rocks on our adventures, as do I, and I seem to end up with an inordinate amount of big books and magazines on vacation which, as I learned after a stop at the Aqua Alta book shop in Venice, Italy, with Mom and Dad, can make your luggage so heavy the airlines will not accept it for any amount of money like they used to. But that is another story with a happy ending I'm thankful all of us got to share. I still leaf through that massive Italian Marie Claire I found at our hotel Giorgione in Venice every now and then. 

Right now in my backpack are two Official Open 2018 Programmes, normally 7 pounds but free to Mom and me and everyone else on the coaches from the ship. And these are hefty, heavyweight Programmes. I convince Mom that we should ask the Complimentary Shopping Storage attendant if we can store our Open goodies overnight as Mom does not want to wait in line to retrieve it on the way out. But of course! Brilliant! Out of the shopping bag come Carnoustie Open Bear, the shot glass and the ball markers, and in go the heavyweight Programmes, several Saturday 21 July Information guide and tee times, and course maps. Good show! I've literally and figuratively lightened my load on so many levels. And it's only 11:20 a.m. Neato.

Mom just needs an escort to the W.C. and we'll be off to the links. I suggest that as I used the wee little loo on the coach and made sure to dehydrate myself on the journey thus far, I would gladly get us beer and a spot in the Spectator Village to check the tee times and map out where to go next for Open Golf. Mom gives me 20 pounds and I am off to The Open Arms. I meet Cameron, our bartender for the next two days, and get us a Stella Artois and Boddington, good Belgian beer we've been drinking since Amsterdam. I make note of the Gourmet Sausage Rolls shop next door, as on vacation I like to sample as many exotic local foods and beverages as possible; besides, I've never heard of sausage rolls and I'd like to try one as I imagine they'd taste delightful. 

Although intrigued, I cannot divert now as I have two full beers and need to be on the lookout for Mom from the comfort of an octagonal picnic table facing the Large Screen of Open action, leaderboard, course map, statistics and whatnot. Who would have thought the birthplace of golf could be technologically advanced enough to show us so much information all at once. Who knows what hologrammy future awaits golf. Alas now for me, with no future in the food service industry, attempting to navigate two full beers that cost 6 pounds each (no pressure - the name Grace can inflict the curse of klutziness), the nearest vantage point is near the rubbish bins, but we'll only sit long enough to figure out how to get to live Open golf from here. ...

... And take in This crowd. Wow. What a scene. I've heard Sir Nick Faldo ask on television why anyone would sit in a giant blue bean bag in front of the Big Big Screen at The Open. For me, the giants on the screen are a multi-level marvel, but only a backdrop down the main links thoroughfare for the fascinating parade of fans, enthusiasts and significant others. I could sit here all day and watch this if we weren't here to see golfers battle for The Open Championship. The crowd is as mesmerizing, enlightening and enchanting as the Barry Burn. For the most part: Two of those significant others will turn out to be loud, preachy and annoying, although that won't be till later, and one of them was actually trying to learn, albeit loudly and with a string of questions that revealed she really was not listening nor learning a thing about golf. .

For now I have a picnic table all to myself, Travel and Open Bears, and my map, tee times, beer and backpack. I scan the crowd as I orient the map in the direction of the route we will hike along the North Sea to the grandstands at the back of the course. Even with the bins, what a view and perfect vantage point to scan for Mom and study the map and slowly sip. I take a look at the tee times and reference the big screen to get an idea of which golfers we might see as we make our way back through Spectator Village, trek 461 yards down the Par 4 Hole 2 to its green, where climbing a bit up the grandstands will also give us a view of the green for the 412 yard Par 4 Hole 5, and the tees for the 350 yard Par 4 Hole 3 and 580 yard Par 5 Hole 6. That's a whole lotta golf goin' on there. Super swell! 

To catch up those who missed the beginning of this mesmerizing Championship of Golf, the ship had been positively abuzz with Open talk since Thursday. I was thrilled to see we'd get The Open on our cabin TV, weather permitting. We saw Wales and Liverpool Thursday, yet another great story to be grateful for with many photos and narration, if I can figure out how to get those voice memos off the iPhone. We grabbed trays full of buffet and drinks to bring back to the room to get to great golf on the telly. You immediately can tell a person is not a golf fan if they scoff at the phrases "horse race" and "exciting golf." This Open has all of that in spades. At least a dozen guys, most of them Americans, including Mr. Tiger "T" Woods playing in his first Open since 2015, and Mr. Phil and Mr. Kevin "Kiz" Kisner of Aiken, S.C., have a real shot at winning this Open; Mr. Jordan Spieth is defending his Champion Golfer of The Year title, and his buddy Mr. J.T. was playing good, too; Rookie of The Year Xander Schauffele was impressive as he worked his way up the leader board, with "veterans" like Mr. Rickie Fowler, Mr. Matt Kuchar who lost The Open at Royal Birkdale last year to a then 23-year-old Mr. Spieth who had many Spieth-like shots including from the driving range to get back into play on the 13th followed by a birdie-eagle-birdie-birdie-par finish to handily win, and Mr. Charley Hoffman, who won the 2007 Bob Hope Classic back when there was Hope; former #1 Golfer in the World and Florida boy, Mr. David 59 Duval; and 2-time U.S. Open Champion and former Florida State golfer Mr. Brooks Koepka. The only disappointment from the States was World #1 Golfer Mr. Dustin Johnson, who could not seem to get the hang of playing in Scotland during a drought which was going on 8 weeks. Not that I could blame Mr. D.J. - I only was there the Open weekend but I felt sure both days any minute the sun would give way to freezing, pelting, horizontal rain that I believe would get me and Mr. D.J. feeling in familiar if not better sorts.

The drought had rained havoc all down Carnoustie Golf Links. Greens and fairways are fast, and luckily for Mr. Phil, the rough is too thin and dry to do too much. And what kind of golf fun would Mr. Phil be having if he hit it in the fairway every time? We wouldn't be having as much fun with him as we have over decades, surely. I should want to tell Mr. Phil to stay away from the siren song of the shiny, sexy blonde wisps lining the fairways, but do I, would I? He's so good at getting out of gorse, pine, sand, hospitality house or two ... you name it, he's been in it. He does seem receptive to positive criticism, so I might suggest Mr. Phil hit those Par 5 greens in 2, drive the Par 4 greens from the tee, and just Hole In One the Par 3s. That goes for almost all of y'all, by all means: Feel free please to use my "Expert Internet Golf Advice," LOL!

Other long hitters, like Mr. Koepka, got the pleasure Thursday of teeing off the 396 yard Par 4 First and seeing it steamroll the bumps, hills, moguls and valleys of the fairway up onto the green luckily just after 2007 and 2008 Open Champion Mr. Padraig Harrington of Dublin, Ireland, hit in his short putt for par. [I so look forward to Mr. Harrington's future career in golf broadcasting, which I really hope will include many references to his lucky charms. In his group as well today is Mr. Bubba Watson of Baghdad, Florida, U.S.A. When the mood strikes at home I shout "Baghdad" when the camera turns to Mr. Bubba, causing quite the mix of reactions depending on the company, but I would never shout Baghdad at The Open as ringing in my ears is experienced announcer Sir Nick Faldo saying "Oh no, not at Augusta" after some guy there yelled "mashed potatoes" after a tee shot years ago.] Super nifty drives were careening down fairways all over This Open. 

Mondo long putts also were dropping. Mr. Kiz Thursday made a wicked long eagle putt on the 580 yard Par 5 Sixth, and a set of three birdies on the back nine to be first early, often and all day in The Clubhouse with a 5 under 66. Mr. Tony Finau Thursday had 8 birdies among his many shots. I am grateful to see Mr. Finau become a better and better golfer - when I saw him hit that hole in one at the Par 3 Competition at Augusta this year, I thought he'd forever be known as the guy who popped his own ankle back into place in order to win that cursed Trophy, and I think he played through much pain to finish in the top 10 at that Masters. Good on Mr. Finau for getting to one behind Thursday at -4 67.    

Plenty of International golfers have a good shot at winning This Open. Must Mention Mr. Rory McIlroy of Holywood, Northern Ireland, which is classy like old Hollywood, Calif., U.S.A., used to be classy, I suppose. But that's next year's story, with 8x10 glossy photos figuratively, God willing. Mr. McIlroy played his first Open at age 18 at Carnoustie in 2007 and won its Silver Medal as leading amateur, came close at St. Andrews, and won The Open at Hoylake in 2014. He lacks one Major for the Career Grand Slam. His swing is a thing of beauty and we've seen him make many magical putts and chips. But I'm not sure he's used to playing in such nice weather. He finished -2 Thursday. I miss Mr. McIlroy's carefree, tousseld 18-year-old hair. I miss a lot of these guys' hair, although they might miss it more. 

Having just visited Liverpool, all full of moptops, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention the player I've affectionately and with admiration nicknamed Captain Hairdoo, Mr. Tommy Fleetwood of Southport, England, in at +1 Thursday. He has a great attitude about enjoying his great hair while he's got it. Good on you, Capt. Hairdoo. The States has Captain America, and now England has Captain Hairdoo. Please remember I wrote that, you read it here first, and it's meant as the highest compliment to Mr. Fleetwood, England and Europe. We try to be the best guests possible to repay such welcoming, hospitable countries. We just saw Mr. Paul Casey of England win the Valspar Championship back home in nearby Innisbrook, Florida, and he was kind enough to smile and wave at Mom and me from the tee after I gave a friendly wave as we crossed the fairway in front of him on a practice day there. But here at The Open, Casey finished day one at +2.

Mom likes Signore Francesco Molinari, in at -1 Thursday. I've liked the Molinari Brothers since that Ryder Cup where they had their own song. And we're partial to Italians because some of our best friends are Italian, like our dog Scoob E Dooby D Doge whose great-grandparents were from Bologna, Italy, home of their Bolognese breed. I don't know that I would visit there...    

Senor Jon Rahm was doing his best for Spain at -2 Thursday. He as well as Senor Sergio and Senor Rafa Cabrera Bello make me miss Senor Seve, and watching Senor Seve Ballesteros on weekend TV golf with Mom and Dad. We all watched with the rest of the World in 1979 when at age 22 Senor Ballesteros became the youngest Open Champion ever. In our house, we never say never, but will we ever see another Senor Seve? Being on vacation gives you plenty of time to ponder and reminisce, especially on the serene sea.  

As much as we enjoyed Wales and Liverpool Thursday, yet another journey about which I'll gratefully tell the tale someday, Mom and me are both looking forward to continuing Friday in our cabin watching The Open and the waves in our wake as we sail north around Scotland to the North Sea, where we'll weigh anchor off Edinburgh. Only short, distant, intermittent showers break up the suspicious sunny blue skies, which are most puzzling and beginning to annoy with the way they're creating a whole lotta paranoia along with stunning scenes.  

Finally Friday morning it rained at Carnoustie, but only lightly and not enough to do much to the greens, fairways and roughs other than make them a bit slower, and maybe or maybe not more predictable for the players who went out early, like first off the tee Brandt Snedeker Snedeker Snedeker of America, Amateur and local and crowd favourite Sam Locke of Scotland, and Cameron Davis of Australia. Travel Bear and I settle in with breakfast in bed, while mom arranges the chair and coffee table as she always does after breakfast is delivered. This is one of the niftier ways to watch golf on TV, although left unspoken is that we are missing Dad and Scoob E.

Golfers are making and missing many magical shots all about the Carnoustie links. Mr. T was maddeningly mystical, and then Friday not so much. Defending Open Champion Spieth hit his usual number of Spieth-like shots, including an iron through a gap in the trees for a birdie-birdie start on the back nine. Mr. Phil was in one of the later groups with Senor Cabrera Bello, neither of whom got to take advantage and finished at even and +2, respectively. This is much better than fellow Spaniard Senor Serge, who unexpectedly missed the cut at +4 with his +4. 

In other International news Friday at The Open, local favourite Locke at +3 was the only amateur to qualify for the weekend of his life playing Carnoustie, meaning he's already this year's Silver Medal winner. Congratulations to young master Locke, his family and team. Mr. Casey was right there with him at +2. Much higher up the scoreboard was Signore Molinari at even for the Championship. Other international golfers playing well included Capt. Hairdoo one off the lead at -5, and Multi-Major winner Mr. Rory at -4.

Again, the top of the leaderboard seemed to be dominated by Americans Friday. Mr. Kiz held on to a two shot lead until he got to the Barry Burn at 18, bounced his ball off its rock wall from the rough, and dropped two shots to become co-leader at -6 with Mr. Zach Johnson, from the U.S.A. as well. Also doing America proud are Rookie Schauffele and Mr. Pat Perez at -5, Mr. Kuchar and Mr. Finau at -4, and Mr. Kevin Chappell with Mr. Fowler and as mentioned Mr. Spieth at -3. It was a good day for Americans in Carnoustie, setting up Saturday at The Open to be even better, which Mom and me are finding unbelievable on many, many, many levels.    

Getting to sleep after another exciting day of Open Championship Golf when you know you must awake by 4 to prepare to catch the launch to the coach meandering through a picturesque Scottish maze that leads to an Open picnic table with Mom and Travel Bear is kind of like trying to get to sleep Christmas Eve knowing it will be your first Christmas without a Dad or GrandPaw. But we did it and now here we are Saturday at this Open Arms picnic table with our maps and tee times and bears, oh my!   

And here comes Mom for her beer and Cheers To The Open! We get a few more photos of us all, and I point out that she learned Senor Cabrera Bello is tall in person when we ran into him on the fairway, but she has never seen a Giant before experiencing Senor Rafa on the Spectator Village Giant Telly in front of us. Mom drinks in the rest of the scene and her beer and the logistics laid out on the picnic table. I show Mom on the Course Map our southerly route paralleling the North Sea. After she's had her fill of atmosphere and enough beer to maneuver, we head over to 2 Tee and join the Mr. Kevin Na and Mr. Byeong Hun An Group 15 at the 461 yard Par 4. Their names are an anagram no matter how you spell them, which is fun for me. Two nice drives, still enjoying quite the rolls on droughty Carnoustie Links. 

Mom and me have a much rougher walk up Hole 2 than Na and An up the fairway. The rough trampled gorse is shiny, smooth and slippery like hay. The dirt paths require your attention for holes and rocks and other people balancing or not with beverages, oh my. We're off to see The Open. And we are evidently hiking up quite a high dune. Mom is more comfortable holding my elbow, which is great by me. When we reach the stands behind 2 and 5 greens and 3 and 6 tees, Canadian Adam Hadwin, who has a big fan in our mailman back home, and Mr. Julian Suri of the U.S.A. are on 2 Green and An and Na have teed off the 350 yard Par 4 Hole 3. 

We have great seats from which to see those chasing the lead start their rounds. From these grandstands we can watch the action on 3 and 6 tees and 2 and 5 greens Of particular interest were Mr. Phil and fellow American Mr. Austin Cook in Group 23, followed by Mr. Shaun Norris of South Africa and Mr.T. Mr. Tiger seemed to be playing like Tiger of ye good ol' days, the Tiger who already won 14 other Majors, including The Open in 2000, 2005 and 2006, respectively at St. Andrews, and there again at the birthplace of golf, and Hoylake in England. 

When I say of particular interest in regards to Mr. Tiger, this proper Open golf crowd was going wild for Tiger, watching him brilliantly stalk his way up the leaderboard on Moving Day, as we call it. I really did not learn enough English Over There to say surely. ... Mom, Scoob, TB and me had just this Spring been transfixed by Mr. T nearly winning our local ValSpar Championship back home, coming in second to England's affable Mr. Casey. In our house we never say never, and who wouldn't want to see St. Andrews Open Tiger, either one, back all the time again? Mr. T surely would be most thrilled, but the rest of us not competing against him would be nearly as thrilled too. Everyone has their favorite Mr. Tiger memories and if you can't remember, they're on Golf Channel telly in the States all the time, and worldwide on the Web. And they're almost all pure pleasure. 

Sheer joy is what this crowd's got today. Still fairly respectful though a mighty crowd t'is. Their rumble in and out of the stands is the kind of loud that starts in your feet, moves up through your legs to your seat and up your spine through your brain and eardrums.Jeepers! Mom and me kind of hugged each other after that mass entrance and exodus.

As we both are rooting for most golfers almost always, we stayed in our perch for Mom's Faves Group 26 of Mr. J. Day they say of Australia but I think now from Ohio, and Signore F. Molinari of Italy, as well as Mr. Webb Simpson of America and Mr. Sung Kang of Korea, Mr. Patrick Cantlay of America and Mr. Eddie Pepperell of England, Mr. Matthew Southgate of England and Mr. Koepka of America, and Mr. Kyle Stanley of America and Mr. Adam Scott of Australia. And then we are good and hungry after all that good golf and head for sustenance and 18 Green and more great golf and leaderboard and people watching, as our coach won't leave today till the last golfers finish play on 18. 

About a quarter of the way to Hole 18 we stop for burgers, chips, beer and a nifty local chauffeur who's retired, Doctor Don, for good company and golf talk. He asked about Travel Bear, TB we call him, and thought it was perfectly healthy that he'd been across the Equator, Arctic Circle, Caribbean, America and now Great Britain twice, and Doc Don suggests a Travel Bear book, as I do love taking photos of the little guy. And he's so quiet watching golf too, which is setting appropriate super polite. But we were eating now and impolitely talking golf as politely as one could while eating and talking, but we couldn't help ourselves. It was nearly a horse race, and any one of a dozen guys could win, including Mr. Tiger. Or Mr. Spieth, who won last year, or Mr. Kisner, who held his overnight lead again, or Rookie of the Year Schauffele for a nifty Cinderella story, or local favourites Mr. Rory, Captain Hairdoo Tommy Fleetwood, and Olympic Gold Medal Winner Mr. Justin Rose of England who made the cut by 1 by sinking a birdie on 18, or Mom's sentimental Italian favorite, Signore Molinari. ... All while watching go by a group of seemingly "caddies" in red bibs with "Miller" emblazoned on the back in deference to infamous World Golf Hall of Fame golfer and announcer Mr. Johnny Miller maybe, then another group of spectators I thought looked like the late great Mr. Payne Stewart of America, and I'd love to know the stories behind these wardrobe ensembles, but we all want to eat and run and watch The Open so we bid our fond farewells to Doc Don and keep on trekkin' toward 18. 

The Spectator Village is now teeming with people, including a woman with a falcon on her forearm, more men in red Miller bibs, four guys in suits of four different aquamarine Hawaiian shirt prints, and finally we get to see a guy in a kilt. Onward we move on our mission, with a brief stop at the Barry Burn to watch a family of swans also headed toward 18, and making better time than us, even with five swanling kids. Scotland is relentlessly beautiful. Somewhere along the way we got lost and wander by a pot bunker and the DZ, which is pretty nifty. 

The first grandstand we finally get to on 18 Green is reserved, so around the back we go to the next one, which has a bit of a line. But from the queue we can still see Mr. Phil finish with a par at -1, and Mr. T also make par for a -5 and once they do, it is not long before a very cheery volunteer escorts Mom and me to front row seats. Brilliant and Thank You! Wow! We're seated just in time to watch Mom's best Open bet Signore Molinari finish with a par after a day of pars and five birdies to get to -6, while Mom's everyday fave Mr. J. Day finishes with a bogie in a spot of bother at +1.    

Between groups of golfers the grandstands are lively with talk of today's play. Tiger Talk dominates: He birdied three straight holes around the turn, then two-putted for birdie on the 513 yard Par 5 14th to tie for the lead, although that lasted about 20 minutes only. His 66 was his lowest round in a Major in eight years, and leaves him only four shots behind. And four back is not too far for Mr. T. ...

Five or six other guys also had a share of the lead today too. Carnoustie remained cool, calm and sunny all day, allowing for really good golf all over these links, although Mr. Kiz was working hard to maintain his lead and had let it slip here and there. Mr. Rose tied the Carnoustie course record for The Open with a 64 after birdieing the 18th Friday to just make the cut. Mr. Spieth played like he wanted the Claret Jug back from the moment he hit driver off the 396 yard Par 4 Hole 1 to send the ball rocking and rolling to 10 feet from the pin for eagle; four birdies and pars, including right in front of us at 18, led to his lead in the clubhouse with -9. His partner, Mr. Kevin Chappell of America, hit the first birdie we got to see at 18 for a respectable -7 going into Sunday. 

Next Mr. Finau finished with a par, and Mr. Zander Lombard of South Africa hit a rare eagle on 18 to both finish at -4. Then Mr. Kuchar parred 18 to remain at -5, although playing partner Mr. Erik Van Rooyen of South Africa birdied to get to -4. Our crowd went wild for the pairing of Mr. Rory, even though he bogied 18 and backed up to -5, and Rookie Schauffele, who holed a 30-foot putt for birdie and -9 on the day, plus a share of the lead going into Sunday at The Open. Good on you Mr. Rookie. 

Then Mr. Pat Perez of America birdied with a wry smile to get to -2, and Captain Hairdoo parred to finish at -5. Finally Mr. Zach Johnson of America after a mixed bag of a day to say the least hit par to slide out of the lead to -5, while Mr. Kiz with his par at 18 finished at -9 again in the lead, now sharing it with Mr. Spieth and Mr. Schauffele going into Sunday at The Open. And we got to see all that and we're grateful and the better for it! And it's not something we likely will ever experience again from the front row so you're darn tootin' we're grateful. 

And now all of us around 18 Green were stampeding in a most orderly and proper fashion out of the grandstands toward Sunday too. Mom held onto my arm as we navigated with the herd, then split off with a pack heading across 18 and down its 499 yards to The Open egress up and over the railroad and down to our guide waiting to lead our Group 1 hike through picture perfect Carnoustie back to the coach park farther than the 7,402 yards of Carnoustie Golf Links we just traversed. One of our fellow travelers sees me carrying Mom's bag and proving chivalry alive and well carries it for us, for which we are very thankful. It's nice to talk golf too as we meander past the short walls and houses beyond made of stones likely thousands of years old. Thank goodness this fellow's American, otherwise I'd be uncomfortable because America is dominating The Open, in the country that invented golf (and evidently stones). Except for Signore Molinari, Mom chimes in, sharing she's had a feeling he'd win all along.

The coach ride back to the dock is lively with Open talk. There's literally 12 players who could win, and also a rather large bunch of seven players at -4, who might have an outside chance. I always want almost everyone to win, but who do I think will win? It all depends on who brings their Sunday at the Majors game, and what the weather for a Sunday at The Open has in store. Mom still believes Signore Molinari will win. She's rooting for him to win his first Major, and for The Open Championship prize to be won by an Italian for the first time. I can get behind that, and she is my Mom. But I wouldn't mind seeing Mr. Tiger win, as he needs to start winning Majors again because it's been too long for all of us waiting to see that Tiger win again all the time in style, as he always has. Or Mr. Jordan Spieth could become a member of an elite group of back-to-back Champion Golfers of the Year that includes Mr. Tiger in 2005 and 2006 and Mr. Harrington in 2007 and 2008, Mr. Tom Watson in the '80s, Mr. Lee Trevino in the '70s and Mr. Arnold Palmer in the '60s, and many others back to the first, Old Tom Morris in 1861 and 1862. Or Rookie of the Year Xander Schauffele could win for a real Cinderella story. Or Mr. Kiz who's been leading all along could win his first Major. Or Capt. Hairdoo could win his first Major. Or Mr. Rory could win another Open for Northern Ireland. Sure made our journey back to the ship go quick. But we're still going with Mom's first choice for Champion, Signore Molinari.

Back on board, we have a quick sit-down dinner at our regular window table for two, and it's still sunny and pretty outside. We have some extra packing to do for Sunday, as The Open UPS told us they'd cheerily ship anything home for us, not just our Open Gift Shoppe purchases. So as Mom showers, I unpack Dad's black duffel bag of my carry-on items which I do not want to ship home. Then I start stuffing it with Amsterdam, Scotland, Belgium and Great Britain guidebooks, dirty laundry and souvenirs. Mom and me have a very limited souvenir budget, mine even more so as Mom advised when I was packing for the trip to stuff the wallet with my currencies and credit card way down in my backpack or carry on and spoiler alert, I never found it till I got back to the States and unpacked. Mom's meager fixed income indicates she'll be paying off her credit cards for ages for just the air, ground and water transportation and accommodation portion of the trip, not to mention all the food and fun we had in Amsterdam. She knows I got hosed m when my ex ran up more than $50,000 on my credit cards the minute I asked for a divorce, and we all know divorce costs so much because it's worth it is the upside. Nonetheless, my income stream is more like a tiny sad puddle trickling into a sewer. Europe on Zero Dollars A Day Plus Small Stipend From Mom necessitates most of my souvenirs are brochures, pamphlets, postcards, pencils, local coins, books, rocks I've labeled from everywhere we've been, beer and water bottles, and now Gorse and other goodies waiting for us at The Open. I take special care on vacation to savor every meal, view and experience, the very best souvenirs, which I Highly Recommend whether you're financially well off or not. There are all kinds of riches right around you most of the time, if you just look, listen and savor with an open mind curious to learn. 

Shower's free, so it's Mom's turn to stuff the duffel in her jammies while I clean up, lotion up and stretch out. When I emerge in my jammies, Mom is sitting on the bed with her messenger bag, which reminds me I need to unpack my backpack of Travel Bear for bedtime, plus The Open souvenirs staying in our cabin, like the shot glass we need because I am not good at measuring anything without help, and the ball markers we really don't need at all but are shiney, pretty and relatively inexpensive. The rain pants, raincoat and cold weather gear for two remain in the backpack because this sunny Open weather isn't fooling me, no matter what kind of "drought" the locals claim to be experiencing. And surely it will be cold and misty on the boat ride to port early in the morning. 

I'm still not tired, so I take a look at The Open Course Map to see where we've been. We went far! I'm still not sure where we got lost on the course, but we sure had fun doing it. I'm sure I'll need the map again tomorrow, so I put it in the back pocket of my Sunday jeans, and set out tights, compression and thick socks, camisole, long and short sleeve T-shirts and sweater too. My puffy feet may have gotten smaller since Amsterdam so I take a few photos of them with my big watch and the one guidebook we have left for scale. Then camera batteries and phone go on chargers, I put a bit more goo on my sunburned face, take a mess of pills, bid Mom a good night and I love you, grab my earplugs and TB and work on getting some sleep. Which is still no easy task because it's still like your first Christmas Eve without Dad. ...