My latent Scottish genes

When I was growing up in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, almost all of my friends were of Scottish descent -- with a few Irish, Lebanese and Eastern Europeans thrown in for good measure. I grew up in a world of Highland Fling lessons, scones, bannick, gaelic slang and Scottish kilts and brogues. Although we lived a very Jewish life at home, out on the streets I just wanted to be Scottish like pretty much everyone else.

In the years since I went away to university, I had long since forgotten that I had a wannabe Scottish gene. That is of course, until we arrived in Scotland three weeks ago. And then, in just a matter of minutes, I had wiped 35 years off my slate and I was a Scottish wannabe once again.

I just loved being in Scotland. I like the damp, perpetually misty air and I like the emptiness of it. You can drive for miles and see nothing but mountains, streams and sheep. The people are friendly and life is pretty simple. It is not unlike Cape Breton.

I am not really sure what most of those people who live in two- or three-house villages miles away from the next village actually do to put food on their tables, but everyone gets up in the summer mornings and puts on cozy corduroy pants and wellies to do it -- and that suits me just fine.

I am not really a person destined to own a bathing suit or a closet full of flip flops. I was born to wear sweaters and shorts in the summer, like the people I saw in the Scottish highlands.

Apparently, I am also wired to sing old gaelic and Scottish songs which was immediately self-evident when we attended the Edinburgh Tattoo. All those military marching bands of kilted bagpipers playing old Scottish favorites and next thing I knew, I was singing along. My kids were a little perplexed that I actually knew the words. So was I; I haven't sung those songs in more than 30 years. No wonder I can't remember anything anymore -- my head must be full of old Scottish miscellany from decades past!

It was very funny when people spoke to us and my family would all start looking around in confusion and ask: "What did he (or she) just say?" The Scottish brogue can be quite thick, but I understood every last word. I had childhood friends whose parents actually spoke the same way.

And finally, there were those bagpipes and the kilt-wearing men. My kids thought the sound of the bagpipes was awful. Naturally, I loved it. I could listen to that sound for ages without growing bored of it. And men in kilts ... you know, some men actually do look good that way.

Of course, everyone ate crow once we got to the Edinburgh Military Tattoo. I tried to get tickets on the internet since March -- and without any success. And then, thanks to all the nice people we met in Scotland (most of whom were senior citizens) we ended up with opening night tickets, center stage, row six! And my entire family enjoyed the bag piping kilted performers while sitting among our new seniors friends from Scotland.