So Why Don't You Kiss Her?!?
Remembering my Joseph Kennedy experience in France (it's a long story…told a few blogs back) has in turn reminded me of the time I was forced to publicly kiss my wife in Scotland. This speaks to the unique character of Scottish hospitality that, along with the Scottish accent, requires some getting used to by American travelers.
We were on a honeymoon cruise of Scotland and Ireland on a small ship that stopped at several small islands off the northern British mainland. One of the ports was at the town of Stornoway on the island of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides chain. Anchored in the north Atlantic, the island is utterly rugged and windswept, Gaelic is still spoken and the people are big and hearty, evoking images of the Vikings who once settled and ruled the islands.
One such Viking man was waiting for us on a downtown sidewalk as we strolled down the street looking for a place to have breakfast. He was a burly, powerful man in his forties with a long red beard. He wore jeans and a sleeveless t-shirt in the chill morning air, revealing thick, ruddy arms that could snap me in two like a breadstick. He stopped right in front of us, blocking our way, and I had one of those sinking, "Oh, crap" feelings that travel occasionally delivers, wondering if we were about to be mugged or beaten senseless.
"Well," he roared at me in a thick brogue accent, gesturing to my wife, "do you love her?"
I meekly nodded and said, "Yes, I sure do."
"Well why don't you KISS her?" he bellowed.
So I did, and he shook hands with both of us, and didn't beat me to a senseless pulp, and we both continued on our separate ways.
Breakfast was good, too. Those Scots have very unusual ways of making you feel welcome, but after you get over the initial fear and shock, it's really quite refreshing.
© 2007 CBS Interactive Inc.. All Rights Reserved. We were on a honeymoon cruise of Scotland and Ireland on a small ship that stopped at several small islands off the northern British mainland. One of the ports was at the town of Stornoway on the island of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides chain. Anchored in the north Atlantic, the island is utterly rugged and windswept, Gaelic is still spoken and the people are big and hearty, evoking images of the Vikings who once settled and ruled the islands.
One such Viking man was waiting for us on a downtown sidewalk as we strolled down the street looking for a place to have breakfast. He was a burly, powerful man in his forties with a long red beard. He wore jeans and a sleeveless t-shirt in the chill morning air, revealing thick, ruddy arms that could snap me in two like a breadstick. He stopped right in front of us, blocking our way, and I had one of those sinking, "Oh, crap" feelings that travel occasionally delivers, wondering if we were about to be mugged or beaten senseless.
"Well," he roared at me in a thick brogue accent, gesturing to my wife, "do you love her?"
I meekly nodded and said, "Yes, I sure do."
"Well why don't you KISS her?" he bellowed.
So I did, and he shook hands with both of us, and didn't beat me to a senseless pulp, and we both continued on our separate ways.
Breakfast was good, too. Those Scots have very unusual ways of making you feel welcome, but after you get over the initial fear and shock, it's really quite refreshing.
