Driving On The Left

Before we start anything, this post needs a soundtrack. Something like this. 

Or this.

 

 

Or, if you're very brave, this.

And don't forget, we're driving on the left. 

Which means: nothing is going to be the way you think it should be. 

And that's what makes it awesome.

We're in Inverness. Closer to the North Pole than I've ever been before. And we've gone out on a frigidly cold night in mid-April, with a goal: ________ like the Scottish. Just fill in the blank. What are the Scots known best for?

We'd driven all day to get here from Glasgow. Straight north, over a terrain of rolling green hills and majestic, snow-capped mountains. We'd seen more sheep in one day than I think either of us had seen in a lifetime... combined.

And now, here we were, in "Johnny Foxes", having our first round and partaking in typical Scottish merriment. When we had just walked in, Lilly took one look at the tiny dance floor in the center of the bar, then muttered, "It takes more than a few drinks for me to go anywhere near a dance floor." Ha.

This was the culmination of our trip. Within the preceding three days, I'd done a whirlwind tour of Edinburgh: learning about the history of this simultaneously regal and rugged city and all its ghastly secrets, climbing 250m to the top of  Arthur's Seat, and stopping in at the Writer's Museum to see one of the famous book sculptures and to learn about Robert Louis Stevenson, whose poetry my mother read to me as a child. Then I'd met up with Lilly, boarded a bus for Glasgow, and explored the gritty, modern city and its Brooklyn-esque corners with some tips and guidance from Finn's parents, who graciously housed us, fed us delicious food and port wine and scotch, and conversed with us up to the wee hours of the morning. Emphasis on the "wee".

But now, after a visit to Loch Ness, we found ourselves in this little bar in the frigid town of Inverness, laughing it up with random Scots. They just seemed to appear out of nowhere and strike up conversations, often buying whiskies for everyone in the meantime. Although I'm usually not much of a drinker, I wasn't passing up the opportunity to have scotch in Scotland.

It was somewhere in between landing in a foreign country where my native language was the official language, seeing everyone proudly sporting tartans, and having eggs for breakfast that I realized: it felt like joy was everywhere around me. The Scots, with their beautiful, sing-songy accents and simple, unwavering friendliness, were such a sharp contrast to where I've been living. I don't mean to knock France, because it is special and lovely in its own right, but I just couldn't believe how quickly I felt like part of Scotland. It was strange: I don't have an ounce of Scottish blood in me, but I felt like I had found my own people. All in the name of common language. It's fascinating, really.

Lilly was right. It took more than a few rounds. But then, at some point during the night, nice and warm in spite of the weather, as we stood calmly with our drinks, taking in the hopping bar, the band started playing The Killers. And something just exploded within me. It was time to dance.

All I can say is, I'm a rare combination: much more of a dancer than I am a drinker. And I hadn't danced since autumn. I will remember that night forever.

As for the trip to Scotland: idem. I'll remember it forever, too. What an amazing people, and what a bloody awesome place.

 

 

Lilly and I owe a thousand thanks to Finn's parents for their generosity and hospitality, and also for just being so much fun. We had a wonderful time, we cannot thank you enough for the lovely dinners and breakfasts and conversations, and we hope to see you both on our side of the Atlantic next time!