The Royal Mile, Edinburgh
They don't call it "scotch" here; they just call it "whisky". Of course it's Scottish.
Lyn's captivated by the cute dog in the window, but I'm more interested in the rest of the display. Though it may be on the Main Street, the place where you can buy "100% genuine kilt, full outfit", the tiny storefront is packed full of whisky bottles with distinguished or unfamiliar (to me, which means they're even more distinguished) names. There's not a blend in sight.
The soft-spoken Scotman inside lets me browse, and Lyn play with his dog, until I ask him for a recommendation. He knows his stuff. I can sense that he doesn't really like Laphroaig, my starting point, and instead he recommends the Longrow, made in tiny quantities by a single distillery in Campbelltown.
I'm checking out the shop at the same time. He actually has a sign reading "unattended children will be sold as slaves". I'm starting to like this guy.
The Longrow is the fifth bottle of booze I carry to the train station. It's not a backpack any more; it's a bottleshop. This is a $90 experiment; some people are impossibly picky with wine, some blow their money on fashion.
I like whisky.