ACROSS THE POND: What to do when Irn Bru, oatcakes and Hamish Macbeth don't cure the homesick blues?
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A while ago, homesickness reared its ugly head again, making me restless and a pain to be around.
I used to resist homesickness and tried to ignore it, but I’ve worked out the best way to deal with it is to embrace it fully. This means Irn Bru, oatcakes, Tunnock’s caramel wafers, looking at old photos and binge-watching Hamish Macbeth. I love Plockton and have many happy memories of my Highland Regional Youth Orchestra trips there, so cozying up on the sofa with Hamish, TV John and some caramel wafers usually does the trick. But this time the stunning scenery, palm trees and antics of McCrae & Son weren’t doing it for me. I needed something extra, which is why I found myself in a British-style pub in south San Jose with a steaming shepherd’s pie in front of me.
The owner had gone, and the man sat alone, sipping his pint. Should I...shouldn’t I? The urge for banter was strong. Americans don’t do banter, at least not in the same way. And I really missed it.
The place was everything you’d expect in a British pub. TV screens, heavy dark furniture, a decent menu, and an impressive beer and whisky selection behind the bar. There was even HP sauce and malt vinegar on the tables.
As I smothered the shepherd’s pie in brown sauce, I spotted a couple of guys at the bar. One was obviously the owner, clearly English. The other guy seemed to be a regular. The more they chatted, the more I was certain the other guy was Scottish. I eavesdropped a bit more. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I was certain of it. The guy was from Scotland. Someone from my homeland. If you meet someone from Scotland, there’s a kinship there before you even speak to each other. I don’t know many Scots here, and any new Scot is a big event.
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The owner had gone, and the man sat alone, sipping his pint. Should I...shouldn’t I? The urge for banter was strong. Americans don’t do banter, at least not in the same way. And I really missed it. I just wanted to chat with someone who understood my accent from the get-go and have a laugh. Back home, I wasn’t the type to go up to strange old men and talk to them. But these were unusual circumstances.
With my heart pounding, I walked up to the bar. Then daft, socially anxious Kerry took over. “I can’t believe you’re from Scotland, I’m from Scotland too, it’s so nice to hear a familiar accent, which part are you from?” And on and on. The guy’s pint stopped halfway to his mouth, and he did that eye-scrunch and head-tilt thing which most people do when they have no idea what you’re talking about. Then I had a horrible realisation.
“Eh, aren’t you from Scotland?”
“No Honey, I’m San Jose born and bred.”
His accent sounded totally different. Not Scottish at all! After mumbling my apologies, I shot out of there as fast as I could, blushing as red as the red phone box at the door. I vowed never to return, which was a shame because the shepherd’s pie was top notch.
How could I have got it so wrong? My hearing isn’t the best in the world, but I was so sure. The ear hears what it wants to hear, and I was desperate for some banter. That would teach me to eavesdrop!
Sitting in the car fanning my flaming face, I saw a palm tree. It reminded me of Plockton. I drove home, switched on Hamish Macbeth, unwrapped a Tunnock's, and promised not to lug in on other people’s conversations ever again. And maybe book myself a hearing test for good measure.
Kerry MacIver originally hails from the Black Isle and now lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband and needy rescue cat Daisy. She writes about being a Scot in the USA, plays Scottish waltzes on the accordion, and loves photographing the Bay Area. You can find her on twitter @kerrymacwriter
