Scottish Studies, Lesson #1

After wrapping up my first week in Scotland, I'd like to share with you a few things that I have learned about this fair country and her people thus far. It would be in your best interests to take notes.

1.) Past the lips and on the hips

Fish and chips--second only to curry in popularity--is not a meal to be consumed during daylight hours. Rather, it should be reserved solely for occasions of extreme inebriation, as the grease-laden, batter-covered scrod and potatoes act as a counterweight inside the diner's stomach, thus providing sufficient stability to allow the drunk to walk home safely. Consumption at any other time will likely cause "griping bowels," as the Scots say. A roommate and I discovered these little nuggets of wisdom one night in Edinburgh and they have served us well since.

2.) "We're not so different, you and I."

For all his patriotism and nationalistic chest-thumping, the average young Scot's knowledge of his country's history is woefully inadequate. Oddly enough, I find this otherwise disconcerting fact rather comforting. I think it's because it reminds me of back home in the States.

3.) Beetroot juice cures cancer.

Right now, I'm sure you're feeling much like this:

(Believe me, my flatmates and I were equally confused.)

In every orientation session I've attended over the past week, the Scots have been painted as a warm, talkative people. And in my brief time here, I have certainly found this to be true. People stop on the street to ask from whence you hail and why you chose to visit their country; they engage you in conversation very easily and seem genuinely interested in making you feel welcome. They even freely dispense friendly advice, regardless of whether or not it's solicited.

Allow me to set the scene: Saturday night, a group of us set out for a good time at the local pub. At last call, we found the weather conditions severe enough to warrant calling a cab for the brief trip to our residences. Arriving home tired, wet, and a little tipsy, the three of us wanted nothing more than to scurry up to our flat, crank up the radiator, and snuggle into our respective twin beds. However, the cabbie had a different idea. (Mom, stop freaking out, you haven't even heard the story yet.)

Having inquired about our studies and learning that we were all science majors of one sort or another, our cabbie decides to give us the lowdown on traditional medicine versus homeopathic remedies. It seems a football mate of his was diagnosed with terminal cancer three years ago. Rather than go through some experimental chemotherapeutic procedure in a vain effort to buy a few more months, his friend went to an alternative medicine spa in Denmark where he was told that beetroot juice was the cure to what ailed him.

"And do ye ken how he's doin' today?" our cabbie asked.

"No, sir," we replied.

"Weel, he's back to playin' football wi' me four times a week! Not everything has to be so complicated as those science classes, lassies. The Chinese ha' been treatin' heidaches and fevers with herbs fer centuries, ye ken?"

I ken, indeed. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to hurry to the market. I'm feeling a little peaked and need to pick up some rhino horn before the store closes.

4.) The Man, the Myth, the Legend

Contrary to popular opinion, not all Scots are hulking, brooding redheads wrapped in tartan, mending stone fences on desolate moors. (Pity, I know.) Rather, they're more likely to be slender, city-dwelling, slightly balding smokers who wear skinny jeans and sport multiple piercings. (Again, pity, I know.) Thankfully, there is a substantial minority of unbelievably attractive men, especially in Glasgow, who could level you with their eyes. These men are the reasons that coffeehouses with outdoor seating exist. [Note to the tall, dark, and handsome lad I spied on Byres Road from my perch at the Tinderbox Cafe: Yeah, I gave you the once-over. Want to make something of it? (Pretty please?)]

5.) When in Glasgow, say "pish."

A few nights ago, while walking home from a pub (no, really, we do things other than drink), my flatmates and I passed a horribly dank Underground (i.e., subway) entrance, from which waves of warm, wet air--smelling quite strongly of urine--wafted into the city streets. Being a New Orleanian and thus having limited experience with subways, I decided to don my Captain Obvious cape (one of the many embarrassing side effects of a pint of Caledonian lager):

"Ew, the Underground smells like pee," I said, to the giggles of my slightly more sober walking partners.

Now, another side effect that I often experience when imbibing is a hypersensitivity to what I say within earshot of strangers, as I have a booming voice even without the aid of liquid courage. In rapid-fire succession, a series of apologies and qualifications fly out of my mouth: "Oh my God, I hope they don't think I said Glasgow smells like pee. Because it doesn't smell like pee. Actually, it smells like curry. Edinburgh smells like pee, but Glasgow doesn't. New Orleans smells like pee, but that's only because tourists are stupid," and so on and so forth, until I was interrupted by a distinctively male voice with a thick, Scottish burr.

"Yer in Glasgow, so say 'pish'," he commanded. Flustered, I looked to my left to find two men in their mid- to late-twenties walking alongside our party. Gary, the one who spoke, repeated himself, then asked us why, of all the places we could have studied in Europe, we chose Scotland. We gave various answers, mine alluding to the rich history of the country. He looked at me blankly. (See, #2 in action.)

In any case, the moral of this roundabout story is this: When in Rome, do as the Romans, and say "pish."

Okay, class, you're dismissed for recess. Future lessons to come.