It’s been a long day. At least I think it’s been a day. Maybe more than that. To recap:

6 a.m. Tuesday: Jake and I board a flight to DFW, onward to La Guardia. ETA: 12:30.
12:30 p.m. Tuesday: Jake and I are on board our flight from DFW to La Guardia. But we’re not there yet.
1:30 p.m. Tuesday: Jake and I are in Richmond. Something about weather closing LGA and the plane running out of gas if we don’t land somewhere soon. Under the circumstances, I’ll settle for Richmond. While we’re there, in the interests of keeping a 5 year-old occupied, I ask the pilot if he wouldn’t mind giving Jake a tour of the cockpit. He obliged, and Jake was ecstatic.
3:30 p.m. Tuesday: I’m on the phone with American Airlines trying to get myself protected on the 11:35 JFK-London flight. I never dreamed a 9 1/2 hour connection wouldn’t be enough, but it’s starting to look like a possibility.
4:00 p.m. Tuesday: We’re off. To La Guardia. They promise.
5:30 p.m. Tuesday: Mom and Dad meet us at LGA. Time for a quick dinner, and then straight on to Kennedy for my 9:15 to London.
9:15 p.m. Tuesday: We have what in airline-speak is called a “Decision Time” of 10 p.m. on our flight. In English, that means, “Sit down, shut up, and wait for an hour until we decide to tell you if this flight as actually going tonight. Have a nice day.”
11:15 p.m. Tuesday: Wheels up over Jamaica Bay. ETA at Heathrow is now 10:45 a.m. My flight to Glasgow is at 12:15. If worrying would make the plane go faster, I would. But it won’t, so I don’t. My upgrade cleared at the last second, so I’m able to change into some sweats and stretch out. I order a scotch and soda, sip it while I watch two episodes of “Entourage,” put the seat in the full-flat position, and sleep like a baby for the next six hours.
11:35 a.m. Wednesday: I clear immigration at Heathrow T5. My Glasgow flight is boarding. So much for having a nice relaxing shower, changing clothes and grabbing some breakfast in the British Airways lounge. I feel like dirt. I feel sorry for the person who has to sit next to me on the flight to Scotland.
2:30 p.m. Wednesday: Ah, Scotland. Even at the airport there’s a certain smell in the air; it’s misting, it’s chilly, and I love it. Yes, even at a dreary, gray airport I’m reminded of how much I love being here and how much I’ve missed it.
2:32 p.m. Wednesday: I walk across the street to Hertz, pick up the keys to my sporty little Renault Scenic, and promptly get into the passenger’s seat and wonder why the steering wheel is missing. I gingerly exit the vehicle, checking to see if anyone caught that. I try to appear as nonchalant as possible. It doesn’t work.
4-ish p.m. Wednesday: I love driving in Scotland. Mark Knopfler making a guitar sound like bagpipes on the iPod, road signs for towns that roll off the tongue like Stirling, Braemar, and Auchterarder whizzing by… It’s too bad I really have to concentrate on keeping the car on the wrong side of the road. I’d like more time to take this all in.
6:00 p.m. Wednesday: At long last, 30 hours later, I’m here. The real work starts tomorrow. First tee time is 6:30 a.m., and I plan on being there.