After living abroad for over 3 years by now, you would think I would be quite settled in, no longer the "Outsider". For the most part, I can understand the extremely varied Scottish accents and can even direct you to the nearest loch or tavern in most of the country's main cities. On more than one occassion I have been stopped in the street by a passing tourist (usually Australian- they are everywhere!) or just an extremely drunk Scotsman to be asked to give directions. Nothing makes you feel more like a local than to direct a staggering drunk to the nearest bookie.
Every now and then, however, small incidents occur that tarnish that thin layer of pride. Small, stupid things that make even the most mature ex-pats feel like a complete idiot. This happens quite often to me. Only last week I was sending a package to the States from my local post office in Wishaw. In fact, it was my friend's lingerie party gift, and I was late in sending it, as usual. I rarely send packages, and if I do I'm with Michael, my locally-knowledgeable hubby who is fluent in Glaswegian and "Wishy", amongst other Scottish variants of what was once the English language.
Now, just to justify my actions of this day, in the States when you send a package abroad you are given a large customs sticker, on which you are required to write your recipient's address as well as your return. Apparently this is not the case in Scotland. After waiting in the queue for at least 15 minutes (Post Office lines are always ridiculously lengthy because most people don't actually use it to post anything), I was called by a mechanical voice to approach the counter. I had already been raising eyebrows by others in the queue by lugging around an awkwardly large box (the only one I had in the house), and, having ran out of clear packaging tape, piecing it together with bits of black duct tape and bright yellow Scotch tape (I believe at one point the tape was white, but after several years of ageing had somehow transformed into a papyrus-like state). Needless to say, it was the least attractive package in the queue.
Heaving my poor, awkward parcel onto the counter, I announce to the teller that I am sending it abroad.
"Contents?"
"What?" What kind of greeting was that?
The woman glanced up from her computer screen and looked at me like I was purposely trying to be difficult. "What are the contents of your parcel?"
Already flustered, I start to stammer because I suddenly can't think of a more tactful way to say, "the entire back shelf of Anne Summers." (My best friend is getting married, so I figured I might as well give her a present worth remembering).
As I'm still thinking of a better fib, the woman gave a disapproving glare at my pathetic wrapping skills and said, "I'm not accepting that."
At this point I'm a bit shocked and getting angry, so I replied, "It may be an eye-sore, but you can't deny my package based on looks! What kind of judgemental institute is this, anyway?" and I looked over my shoulder at the line of people behind me, trying to rally support at this injustice.
Rolling her eyes, the irritable woman said, "You can wrap it in 10 more colours for all I care, but that package is going nowhere without an address. Where did you think you were coming?" and with a sharp dismissive wave of her hand she called on the next customer without another glance in my direction, leaving me to walk out through the obvious sniggers of the other customers.
The moral of the story is: there is always more to learn. And: never send embarrassing presents without a solid cover story first! Or just stick to online shopping ;)
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