It's a cool, windy, dry day in Glasgow – and I've been walking excessively about town. The city is hilly and walkable and I enjoyed passing the shop windows, hoping on and off buses and rushing across pedestrian crossings.

I enter what could be a place straight from the middle of the 20th century. In here, Anthony Bourdain tackled (among other things) that famous fried Mars bar, which is why I'm convinced this is the place to go for a fried Glaswegian meal. Through the speakers, a 90s Robbie Williams song breaks that atmosphere, though: they did keep up with the time somewhat. Yet, to me it feels sufficiently long ago.

The woman at the counter is friendly and helpful. I realize the café isn't all about fried food I'm afraid, but essentially still a coffee shop offering supposedly delicious ice cream along with the steaming cup. I explain to her that I'm here for a Glaswegian "pizza crunch,"² though. She understands. I opt for a fried Mars bar as dessert – and keep it light with my Diet Coke.

I'm still checking out the interior, when the food already arrives. It's far from rush hour. There's a couple sitting at a table nearby. The food is delightful in ways that truly cannot be described. No aromatic sensation, no layered palate, no sort of complexity would ever be extracted. Nothing to wrap the mind around, nothing to analyze. Nothing there but a gracious, comforting, sweet, greasy, beautiful sensation that puts me deeply at ease – and nearly asleep.

Small speakers are mumbling "Stop!" by the Spice Girls from the ceiling, while both cook and waitress take a break and have a chat. They refrain from sitting across the table from each other – each in a booth on the opposite side of the room. They're talking to each other, plainly, loudly, audible – I can barely discern a word.

With every bite I take my stomach is viscerally filling up, while my appetite stays alive – the music, the smalltalk, the interior … all that simplicity is soothingly easy on me and my nerves. By halftime, I wish my meal would be longer. I'd love this moment to elongate way into bedtime. Like a trip into unforgotten memories I enjoy both the excitement of discovery and reassurance. In here, life is OK. Will always be OK.

I roll the thought of ice cream once over in my head – but accept my body truly has had enough. I pick up a handwritten piece of paper – serving as check – and head out into the damp streets under a dusky Glasgow light to catch a bus.

Ellie asks me what time it is. Her phone battery has left her dead and the scheduled bus never came. "Without this" (points at her black screen) "you're lost." Please note: The written word doesn't do the phonetic gauntlet I'm subjected to any justice. Through her Scottish accent I barely understand enough English to string together a coherent idea of what we are talking about.

My saturated, over-sugared mental hard drive is overclocked. One area of my brain is meticulously scanning her speech for information, while the other is busy deciphering the bits. All the while Ellie keeps on talking (as if a phonetic barrier was nowhere to be found) – asking me questions, mostly, on my Interrail journey.

While I'm still stumbling over putting together coherent English phrases, Ellie switches into a higher gear. She offers an introduction to Scotland's political system, the status quo, and her outlook on Scottish society. Abruptly, I'm forced to tap into my very shallow pool of Scotland knowledge and rather thin intelligence on daily Scottish politicking.

Gaza, of course, leaps up again. With each of these quick, painful stabs I'm reminded of my usual cloud of travelling bliss: fried Mars bar lunches and Sunday Roast dinners circling… to be touched anytime.