Memories of Scotland

Martin was a natural smiler but traveling to his native Scotland always sent him over and beyond the moon.

In this photo we had just landed at Glasgow International Airport and he was all but floating. He was back with his peeps and their plaids and haggis and oatcakes and neeps and patties and bangers and mash and my personal fave, Walker's shortbread.

(Y’all know how I said I’d never remarry? If there are any single shortbread Walkers out there, call me!)

Martin loved serving as translator. I’m fluent in English and can ask my way to a bathroom in Spanish. Put me in the same room with any American Southerner or Brooklynite and I can hold my own in a conversation.

However, when it comes to Scottish folks and especially Glaswegians, I might catch every thousandth word. If I’m lucky.

At first, I’d be polite about it and say, “I beg your pardon?” It didn't take long before I was down to “Huh?”

Martin was a regular UN interpreter, translating their English into my English and my English into theirs.

Even today, the word “path” still brings back memories.

We were on ScotRail for a day trip and Martin was frantic as the train slowed. “Get up! This is our stop!” 

I was chillaxin’ in my seat all comfy like. I caught part of the conductor’s announcement about the upcoming stop and settled in even more. Couldn't understand what he was saying but I did catch something about a path. Definitely not us.

“Get up! Get up! This is where we transfer!” Martin insisted. His insistence was well-founded. Miss a train stop in some parts of Scotland and the next stop could be a long time coming with a return train even longer in coming.

I remained in my seat and said, “No! We get off at Perth!”

“What do you think he’s saying? This IS Path.”

But of course.