Eons ago, when I was in college, Icelandair was the cheapest flight to Europe. You went through Reykjavík, where you were supposed to get off the plane and buy a sweater — a nice, Icelandic sweater. Then you could go on to one of two cities: Luxembourg and Frankfurt. (Granted, Luxembourg is a country, too, but bear with me.)

Well, I am still flying Icelandair. But now, you can transit to many more cities. I am going to Glasgow.

• On the plane from Newark to Reykjavík, I have a conversation with some nice flight attendants. “You know,” I say, “my flight in 1984 cost about the same as my flight today, almost 40 years later.” One of the flight attendants says, “I know. Exactly. That’s the problem. Fares are too low. I don’t know how the companies can stay in business.”

But the subject of airline economics — interesting as it is — need not detain you and me . . .

• A Glaswegian tells me, “People are very friendly here — much friendlier than in Edinburgh.” In my experience, the people in Edinburgh are perfectly friendly. But it’s true: The people in Glasgow — Glaswegians — are extraordinarily friendly.

• One of the first people I meet here is a hotel clerk named Diego. He is very friendly — a Californian, from Dana Point (in Orange County). He is studying at the University of Glasgow and loving it — the university and the city.

“Any trouble understanding the Scotsmen?” I ask. “None,” he answers. “It took just a few weeks. Then I could understand even the thickest accent.”

And people here can understand him, of course — owing to American movies and television.

• I have always thought of Glasgow as the “second city” in Scotland — with Edinburgh being the first. If you go by population, however, Glasgow is on top, with about 635,000 people versus about 555,000.

• My dad had a friend from Glasgow — an American born and raised in Glasgow. He became my friend, too. His nickname, of course, was “Scottie.” The Scottish Enlightenment means a lot to me, given my political views. When I encountered Smith, Hume, and the boys, I thought, “This is what I believe. This is what I cotton to.”

I myself am of Scottish ancestry (never mind the name “Nordlinger”). Now, I don’t give a rip about ancestry. My kind of website would be genealogy-dot-com-dot-who-cares? But for some reason, I find that I keep telling people here that I am part Scottish . . .

• George Square is the major civic square in this city. There are monuments honoring an assortment of great Scots: poets, scientists, statesmen, soldiers. A society needs them all, don’t you think?

• The Glasgow Cenotaph honors the Glaswegian dead in World War I. Standing in front of it, I think — as I have thought many times, especially before such memorials — “Was it all ‘senseless slaughter’?” I do not belong to this school: the “senseless slaughter” school. But we can leave that discussion out of this journal . . .

• Presiding over the unveiling of the Cenotaph, in 1924, was Field Marshal Earl Haig. Forgive me a memory. In 1988, our General Al Haig made a brief run for the Republican presidential nomination. I remember him telling a farmer, in a field, “Name’s Haig, like the British general in World War I. Or the whisky.”

• You see a lot of “James Watt” here. You ought to, given his immense scientific achievements. But, considering my time and place, I can’t help thinking of Reagan’s first interior secretary (James G. Watt), a very controversial (and interesting) fellow.

• “Forbes”? Now there’s a Scottish name. You remember what Malcolm Forbes named his yacht: the “Highlander.” And on formal occasions, as I recall, he sometimes wore a kilt. (Friend of Bill Buckley, Malcolm Forbes.) (Who wasn’t?)

One of the ice-cream flavors here is Scottish tablet. “Scottish tablet”? Well, let me provide a definition, courtesy of the Internet: “a medium-hard, sugary confection . . . usually made from sugar, condensed milk, and butter . . . boiled to a soft-ball stage and allowed to crystallize.” There ya go.

• I have been coming to Britain for a long, long time. And I keep having to remember: When crossing the street, look both left and right, like a fanatic. I have had many near-death experiences. As I do here in Glasgow . . .

When will I learn? (The twelfth of never.)

• Some parts of Glasgow look like movie sets — and, indeed, serve as movie sets. It tends to be cheaper to shoot movies here than in, say, New York. Less complicated, too. (Fewer people, for instance.) Last year’s Batman was filmed here. So was the forthcoming Indiana Jones movie (Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny).

• The Mitchell Library is immense — immense and handsome. Was funded in the 1870s by tobacco money — Stephen Mitchell’s.

(If you can contrive to sell an addictive product — you’ll be rich.)

• Feel like a little language? I like “aye,” in place of “yes.” “Hiya,” too, for “Hi.” “Wee” for “small.”

I’ve always said “AR-gyle,” as in Argyle socks. They say “Ar-GYLE,” I learn.

I like “toastie,” for “grilled cheese.” (I also like toasties themselves, of course.)

I like, “That’ll be five pound,” rather than “pounds” — “pound” as plural.

And how about this? In a store, I indicate that a clerk — a woman of about 35 — should go down the stairs before me. She says, “Thank you, my dear” — which I could get used to.

How do you like this? “Bin your butt” (which is to say, “Throw the remainder of your cigarette into the trash”).

And the following ad tells you something about language. (In America, too, “th” sometimes turns into “f.”)

There is no Glaswegian accent. There are several. How do you pronounce the name of the city, incidentally? In general, I hear “GLAZ-go.” The first syllable rhymes with “jazz,” the second with “no” (rather than “now”).

• I love a blue clock — i.e., a blue-faced clock. That’s one reason I love St Martin-in-the-Fields, in Trafalgar Square (London). Well, here’s a blue clock in downtown Glasgow:

They keep coming:

And coming:

And coming:

They must have known I was coming.

• The St Enoch Centre is a shopping mall. “Enoch” as in the man who “walked with God” and ascended (one of the very few)? No. This source explains.

Most Glaswegians will know the name “St Enoch” but very few will know the true story of who she was: the mother of Glasgow’s patron saint, St Mungo. Saint Enoch has been described as “Scotland’s first recorded rape victim, battered woman and unmarried mother” — a very modern saint for the #MeToo generation, who rose above the hardships she faced.

• Been a long while since I saw Hare Krishna people dance. But here they are, in downtown Glasgow. (I can’t help thinking of Bill Buckley. On Firing Line, the poet Allen Ginsberg chanted a Hare Krishna chant — long. When he was finally done, Bill quipped, “That was the most unharried Krishna I’ve ever heard.”)

• The Merchant Building? That’s what I read, at first. Turns out it’s the “Mercat Building” — and that “mercat” means “market.”

• You may think you have a colorful wall, or know one. But this one’s hard to beat, I would think:

• Uh . . .

• In the future, people may look back on our present age as the “Age of Tattooing.” Tattoo parlors are everywhere — everywhere I go, in America and Britain — along with vape and pot shops, of course.

• In a rundown area of town, young people cluster, looking like they’re actors in a film about the underclass: tattoos; piercings; spiky hair, dyed in neon colors; toking, needless to say.

Will they be okay, later in life? Some will, I hope.

• On one street, I see grimy boys, about 13 years old, smoking cigarettes. That seems so wholesome to me: smoking cigarettes. From an age gone by . . .

• Here is a sign of the times: a shop purveying “Halal Chicken and Scottish Lamb.”

• Stately, huh?

A plaque informs the visitor that public executions were carried out here until 1865. (To an American mind, “1865” means the end of the Civil War.)

• I should not make light, because we’re talking about a rescue number — but an American (at least this American) can’t help thinking of the late Herman Cain:

I’d better explain. Herman Cain was a candidate for the Republican presidential nomination in 2012. He called his tax proposal the “9-9-9 Plan.” (Pointing out the deficiencies of the plan, Kevin D. Williamson wrote an article titled “Nein! Nein! Nein!”)

• If there is anything that beats an old British campus, I don’t know what it is. Here is a slice of the University of Glasgow:

• And don’t you think that the business school — formerly the “School of Economics and Finance” — is well named?

• William Thomson was a very bright boy. The son of a mathematician, he entered the University of Glasgow at age ten. He became the first Baron Kelvin (“Kelvin” as in the temperature unit). He is buried in Westminster Abbey, next to Isaac Newton. To read about Thomson’s life is to be amazed. He lived in this house:

• One good university deserves another: I give you the University of Strathclyde:

I know Strathclyde — and the University of Glasgow, too — through University Challenge, the quiz show. The institutions of this city can field very good teams, whose members sport a variety of interesting, pleasing accents.

• Have a look at this sign, and allow me to make a point, or two.

That word “British” is very important. Some years ago, people were saying, “No one’s ‘British.’ Everyone is English, Scottish, Welsh, or Northern Irish. No one feels ‘British.’” Yet that cannot be true.

Think of Gordon Brown, who was prime minister of the U.K. He himself is Scottish. But he was the head of government, for heaven’s sake. Someone like Gordon Brown — or Michael Gove (another major Scottish politician) — needs the word “British.” It is a very important word.

David Pryce-Jones, the writer, needs it. He is as British as they come. His paternal ancestry is Welsh, as his name tells you. On his mother’s side, there is nothing British at all, so far as I know.

I was so very, very pleased when Scots, in a referendum, decided to remain part of Britain. But I have to ask myself: If I were Scottish, would I be a nationalist? Would I favor separation? Independence? I can’t say I wouldn’t.

I love Britain, as a foreigner. I love the United Kingdom. I want things to stay the way they are forever. But, again: I am a foreigner, and see through foreign eyes. Were I Scottish, I think my nationalist juices would flow, and I’m sure I would burn at every English insult . . .

• On a rainy morning — quintessentially Scottish, in my imagination — I meet a Glaswegian who tells me that he is a fierce Scot. He feels, and is, Scottish to his toes. Recently, he had a genealogy test done. And, according to this measure, he is 97 percent Irish. Which matters not a fig to him . . .

• I meet a Glaswegian named Sohrab. In his late twenties, I imagine. He is wearing Muslim garb. And he speaks with a lovely Scottish burr. Must have been born here. He says he speaks actual Scottish, too — not just English, with a Glaswegian accent.

Does he own a kilt? “Of course!” he answers.

• I meet a distinguished lady named Rita, who speaks Italian. Her mother came from Naples. Her father was a Scotsman. The two met during the war, in Italy, in a touching way. There are lots of Italians in Scotland. (I should put “Italians” in quotation marks.) Maybe its most prominent classical musician is Nicola Benedetti, the violinist. She is now the director of the Edinburgh Festival.

She is the first woman to lead the festival. But get this: She is also the first Scottish person to do so.

• Want a glimpse of the Glasgow Royal Concert Hall? Here you go:

• John Lewis is described to me as “the Macy’s of Glasgow.” Huge, huge department store. Down in the basement, I ask a clerk where the men’s room is. “First floor,” he answers. “Now, that would be the floor above the next floor up,” he adds.

What a gent. He has detected my accent. And he knew I would regard the ground floor — the floor at the entrance level — as the first floor. He was saving me any confusion.

Customer service.

• Here is where you grab a bite at John Lewis. Don’t you like a restaurant — or any other establishment — with a clear, straightforward name?

• This is the Ramshorn — formerly “Ramshorn Kirk” — which houses departments of Strathclyde:

This is Church on the Hill, a bar and restaurant on Glasgow’s southside:

I would like to make a point that I have made before in these journals, and I will make it without elaboration: I would rather churches were burned to the ground than converted to secular purposes.

• For “weekend soldiers,” a Glaswegian tells me. God bless the reserves — and the full-time military too, of course.

• I know a lot of people who snort at the display of the Ukrainian flag. Well, to hell with them. To express solidarity with people under siege, fighting for their very lives — good:

• Oh, no, no, no. Resist, kids!

• The sight of a restaurant reminds me of something:

Some weeks ago, I read an obit of Ali Ahmed Aslam. He was born near Lahore and arrived in Glasgow when he was about 13, in 1959. He would open a restaurant. And some credit him with inventing — I ask you, inventing — chicken tikka masala. Right here in Glasgow.

Well I never.

• Here is a fine-looking couple, whose skirts, I believe, are pretty much the same length:

• Now, that’s a lot of humpin’:

And don’t you think “Twenty’s Plenty” is kind of nice?

• In Scotland, I see names that are familiar to me from my youth. I mean, I knew people named “Erskine,” “Wetherspoon,” and “Renfrew.”

• On the street, I pass a wee dachshund. And I hear a dog not barking, so to speak: I have been here for three days and have not seen a Scottish terrier.

• Behold a meal — damn good one:

• No, this has nothing to do with New York professional hockey. The Rangers are a Glaswegian soccer team.

• A car is approaching, and I think, “Holy cripe, what’s that little girl doing driving that car? She looks about nine!” But of course, she is in the passenger seat . . .

• In front of a church, before a wedding, a bagpiper is piping an interesting tune: the theme from the Largo of Dvořák’s “New World” Symphony. Later, he will pipe the classic “Scotland the Brave.”

That Dvořák theme, by the way, is known by some as “Goin’ Home.” After the symphony was published, a student of the composer put words to the tune, calling the resulting song “Goin’ Home.”

In any event, I have to wonder: Is the piper piping the “New World” theme in honor of the American groom? The bride is Scottish. They are Madeleine Kearns and Nick Tomaino, both beloved by me, and many others.

See you later.

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