Wha will tae Cupar maun tae Cupar
A aye, better gang than be ta’en.
(Or, sae gang tae Cupar an’ be damned!)
-- Old Scottish Proverb (I think)
It's a global village, it truly is. With modern technology blazing forward at lightning speed, it has never been easier to reach out and touch someone a world away. Indeed, every time I get into a cab here in New York, it's not three seconds before the cabbie's jabbering in foreign tongue to someone in Calcutta, Karachi, or Kiev (how's that for alliteration?). Telephone fees have fallen so much that talking to friends and family overseas now costs a mere pittance. Those Verizon and T-Mobile stores in Queens must be making a killing on Bluetooth earpieces and cell phone cards.
Anywho, about a week ago, I had the pleasure of engaging in my very own transatlantic pow-wow with R., a friend who happens to reside in Scotland, of all places. Scotland's a kick-ass country. My interest therein began as a child with that old documentary show In Search Of, hosted by Leonard Nimoy. You remember -- the one where they searched for mysterious things like Noah's Ark, the Giant Squid, and Bigfoot? I was fascinated by the search for the Loch Ness Monster and the foreboding pictures of Loch Ness where he/she/it supposedly hid. In 1995, just before I started working as a lawyer, I traveled to Scotland and absolutely loved it. If you've never been there, you should definitely check it out. Castles, haggis, the lochs, open spaces, not too crowded, and very scenic. Edinburgh is one of the most beautiful cities I've seen. The Scots also have an independent streak that is to be admired. If you've seen "Braveheart" or "Rob Roy," you know what I mean. How do you say: Hard. Core.
The only problem with Scotland? The people are often impossibly difficult to understand. Even though I spoke the same language, I may as well have been in Namibia. Example: we got lost once going south from Inverness and pulled over to ask directions from a kind-looking old guy who was walking by the side of the road with a cane and two or three sheep. He looked like he'd been living in the neighborhood for awhile. No matter. I swear, he gave us the same directions 4 times -- in English, no less -- and we still left the scene not knowing what the fuck the poor man said. Nice guy though.
Another problem is the local fare. Specifically, McEwan's Scotch Ale. You see, when I travel, I like to partake of the food eaten by locals, get a little flavor of the place, so to speak. I'm pretty adventurous in this regard, within reason. That's why, against the advice of many, I tried haggis, a traditional Scottish dish consisting of the following: sheep's heart, liver and lungs, minced with onion, oatmeal, suet, spices, and salt, mixed with stock. This wonderful melange is traditionally boiled in a sheep's stomach for about an hour, and then served piping hot. Mmmm, mmmm, good! I actually liked it -- it tastes like beef hash.
McEwan's Ale, however, was terrible, and almost made me reconsider my "adventure" policy. Background: I'm a beer drinker. I like beer. You fancy-pants Yuppies can have your wine -- your Bourdeaux, your Pinot Noir, and your Chardonnay. My father weened me on Lowenbrau and Pabst Blue Ribbon. I like beer. Thus, when I was in Scotland, I was eager to try a local beer. So, at one point during our travels, we ventured into a pub, and some wise ass bartender suggested, again, in indecipherable English, that I try a McEwan's Ale. With great enthusiasm, I obliged.
Sporting a mischievous smile, he popped open a bottle of McEwan's and slid it my way. Unaware of what was coming, I took a deep, long, first swig. As the Ale swirled around my tongue, my gag reflex immediately kicked in, and I almost puked right there on the bar. That shit was nasty. While I've mostly banished the lousy experience from my memory, as I recall, the taste was a warm combination of alcohol, caramel, malt, butterscotch, and goat piss. I couldn't finish it, though I gamely swigged a couple more gulps, so as not to offend my hosts, and because I wanted to be sure that I had tasted it correctly the first time. I had. Even the word "ale" gets me nauseous now.
Anyway, back to my conversation with R. About a week ago, she sent me a text message to let me know that two of the best soccer club teams in the world -- AC Milan v. Celtic Glasgow -- were in the playoffs for the European Cup. It so happens that I'm an AC Milan fan, the result of a summer spent in Italy when I was 6. Two of my Italian cousins, Claudio and Massimo, lobbied for my loyalty to one of their respective teams, AC Milan or Inter Milan. Back then, I couldn't have cared less about soccer; I was in love with football and baseball. But in Italy, soccer is Everything, and my cousins forced me to choose one Milan team or the other. (A pretty limited choice, when you think about it, given that there are plenty of other teams who play in the Italian League.)
It ended up being a pretty easy choice. AC Milan's jerseys were red and black; Inter Milan's were blue and black. Red was my favorite color at the time, so I chose AC Milan. Claudio was thrilled, Massimo, not so much. I haven't really followed club soccer that avidly since then. My enthusiasm was substantially dampened when I learned that supporting AC Milan was a bit like supporting Microsoft, or the New York Yankees. They always won because they had a shitload of money and always bought the best players. As a Red Sox fan, I wasn't too happy when I learned this. Thankfully, teams like Juventus, Real Madrid, and Manchester United have now made things more competitive.
Even though I don't follow European soccer as closely as the American sports, once in awhile, if there's a big game, I will check in to see how Milan are doing. So last week, when R. let me know that her team, Celtic, were playing my team, AC Milan, my interest was piqued. At my suggestion, we placed a little wager on the game, whose terms shall remain undisclosed. She proceeded to watch the game on her t.v. at home in Scotland, while I was forced to follow it on ESPN Gamecast at work, the equivalent of watching a virtual NFL football game on one of those electric, vibrating metal game tables from the '70s.
For the next two hours, we traded intermittent, transcontinental trash talk. I told her that the Italians are the ones who really know how to play soccer, and that if she wanted to follow a real team, a WINNING team, perhaps it was time for her to start following AC Milan. She in turn called me a "Yankee Motherfucker." Actually she didn't do that at all, she's far too polite, but it makes my story slightly more interesting, doesn't it? In truth, she held her own, suggesting that one of the referees -- a Sicilian -- was paid off, perhaps by the Mafia. Bah, as if that would ever happen in Italy.
Things got awfully quiet on her end though, after Milan scored in overtime, making it 1-0. Shortly after Milan won the game, R. gave me a call, and I again raised the prospect of her switching teams. It's not hard to do. See here. True to her heritage, she declined my cynical offer, like that die-hard William Wallace. Then I made an embarrassing mistake. I mispronounced her team's name, calling it "Kel-tic." What a maroon. That's like a tourist coming to New York and calling Houston Street "Hew-stun Street," like the city in Texas.
"It's SSSeltic, not Kel-tic," dear R. corrected me.
"Ah, like the Boston Celtics, okay," said I, pretending that I really knew better.
Fortunately, R.'s accent is more decipherable than the aforementioned gentleman by the side of the road, but I do sometimes need her to repeat herself, so I can understand what she's asayin'. It's charming, confusing, and funny all at the same time.
All this reminds me that I really must get my Self back to Scotland soon. Only this time I'll be sure to bring a dictionary and one of them computerized pronunciation jobbies, so I can get by with minimal confusion. Oh and one more thing. Hold the McEwan's, please.
