It’s not that I don’t like my own country. Although, when faced with the fact that either George Bush or Al Gore will be the next president, it’s easy to lose faith in it. And there are plenty of great things that we offer the world, like Starbucks coffee shops, Microsoft millionaires, and blue jeans. I’ve just decided it’s time for a change. A new homeland. At least in spirit.

When we chose to marry in Scotland, the decision was based on the things we found important at the time; residency requirements (or a lack thereof), beautiful medieval castles, and a common language. We weren’t into whisky or haggis, and I would often find myself cringing at the sound of the bagpipes when the sunny days in Seattle brought a street piper  to Westlake Park.

But then there was Braveheart. Being dreadfully ignorant on the subject of British history in general, we thought we’d bone up by watching the Mel Gibson epic. Strangely, the American movie with an Australian star gave us the first twinges of Scottish pride. It’s hard not to loathe the English when watching the sufferings of William Wallace, and loathing of a common enemy is the first step towards empathy, and eventually, patriotism.

The next step towards assimilation came from the people. I’ve never encountered such friendly people. Perhaps it’s because I live in Seattle, well known for its “welcome to Seattle, now get out” motto. Being single here was hard, but making friends is even harder. I take aerobics at lunch, four times a week, with the same group of women. Although I see them naked almost every day, never once has the conversation progressed beyond “are you done with that hairdryer?” In Scotland, however, people on the street will just walk up to you and start talking. “Do ya see tha wee buildin over there? Tha’s where they burned tha witches hoondreds of years ago.” We stopped a guy to take our picture in front of Holyrood Palace, and fourty-five minutes later he’s still talking to us about his horrible childhood, his sainted dead mother, his impending retirement party, and his role model, Ms. Doris Day. . . Maybe it was a little bit annoying, but not in the same way overly enthusiastic Americans are annoying. The only people who will start talking to you on the street here are drunk or insane, or both.

Then there was a huge amount of pride. Everyone we talked to would tell us how great their country is and how proud they are to be Scottish. They knew their history, they knew their cities and their geography. Here, I get the feeling that most people can’t remember the name of the last president before Clinton, and cannot identify the mountains they see from their picture windows, or their state capital. It means nothing to be American, much less to be from Washington, or Seattle. America represents the homogenization of world culture; a Starbucks at every corner, a McDonalds in every neighborhood. It’s hard for Americans abroad to yearn for their homeland, when you can’t get away from it.

Back in the States, there is a lot of Scotland that I miss. Claustrophobic medieval streets and stairways, wide open fields and moors, and even haggis (it’s frikkin’ gud!). I have to admit, I’ve wholeheartedly embraced the Scottish culture, and often found myself stopping at Westlake to listen to the piper. With pride swelling in my heart, I turn to the northeast and vow to return.