The Drunk Scotsman
The Commons is an Interesting Place at 3am
This story happened in England, which is the only non-US place I’ve been to so far. I’d gone with my theater department to the Fringe Festival, which was an international theater competition. We’d toured a bit of England, and finally wound up in Edinburgh, in Scotland, which is where the Festival was actually being held. During our time there, we were staying in the student flats at Napier University, which was out of session for the summer. Most of our time was spent either rehearsing, performing, or going to pubs — I spent most of my time with the San Francisco University people, mostly because they tended to go to more interesting pubs. Wasn’t really into nightclubs, you know? But the group I came with had a lot of Eurotrash types. Well, as much as you can be Eurotrash when you’re American.
In between performances, I’d gotten to know Sarah, the flat manager for the section where our group was staying. In many ways, she was a typical Scottish lass, red-haired, in her early twenties, and interested in American culture. I’m of Scottish descent as well, and interested in Scottish culture, and was nineteen at the time. We hit it off pretty well, and spent a lot of time sitting and discussing differences and similarities. I also learned a lot of Scottish slang from Sarah, which was all kinds of fun.
One of those cultural differences was that apparently, at the time in Edinburgh, it was perfectly normal to walk across the Commons at 3am for a two-liter bottle of soda. This surprised me — where I grew up it wasn’t normal to just up and walk half a mile through a park in the middle of the night just because of wanting a drink, especially if you were a woman. I found this out because, after being up one night until 3am talking, Sarah suggested going for a walk. I’m generally curious about new experiences, so I went along… and also because I didn’t totally believe it’d be safe for her to go alone.
Walking over to the store wasn’t particularly noteworthy. One of the things I learned in England was that I apparently “don’t look American” so I didn’t attract any attention, at least until I started talking in my American accent. Even then, it wasn’t anything major, as I had Sarah with me, and most of the local residents knew the Fringe Festival was on, so there were people from all over the world. We got to the store, Sarah got her soda, and I amused the cashier and the handful of customers with my commentary on the differences between what American convenience stores keep in stock and what the place we went had. I don’t remember if the place was a Tesco or not.
The way back was more eventful. As we were heading back, apparently several of the local bars had just closed — and yes, I did actually hear “Drink up and get out” at least once during my time in Edinburgh. The bars having closed was made apparent by the appearance of a significant number of people now stumbling around on the Commons laughing and talking loudly. Some of them were just the types of drinkers who were trying to get home. Others were rowdier but, another cultural difference, none of them were particularly belligerent. One group was especially noticeable, as they were wandering around with their pants (and trousers, for you UK people) around their ankles. Sarah and I saw this and laughed about it, but neither of us found it bothersome.
Now, I need to take a moment and describe Sarah. As I said, she was in her early twenties, with red hair. She was also reasonably attractive, and at the time, was dressed in a babydoll t-shirt, miniskirt, and low heeled shoes. For my part, I was wearing a black leather vest, black t-shirt, black jeans, and black leather boots; yes, at the time, I had a thing for black. I still kind of do. I also had a beard, more or less the sort of goatee that someone with my face can grow. But the actually noticeable thing about me at the time was my hair. That was before the dreadlocks, when my hair was blond, wavy, and long, to the point that people would ask if I’d had my hair permed. I hadn’t, but because of one of plays I was in, I’d been using conditioners and the like on it, so it was extra lustrous.
Hey, my character believed he was the reincarnation of Marie Antoinette. My hair had to be glorious. And it was.
The descriptions are important because, just after passing the group of guys with their pants around their ankles, we heard “You ladies want a good time?” from behind us. We stopped, and Sarah and I looked at each other. Then we turned and look behind us — it was one of the guys from the group, who still had his pants around his ankles. He leered at Sarah for a moment, and then looked at me in my all black, vaguely biker and definitely not female clothing avec facial hair. I could actually see him refocus, and watched his expression turn from leering into booze-amplified shock, at which point he yelled “Oh my god, it’s a bloke!” pulled up his pants, and ran away. His friends also pulled up their pants and ran off. Probably best, because I doubt they would have managed to not fall over otherwise.
So there I was, in a park at 3am, watching a drunken Scotsman who’d just hit on me because of my hair running away because I turned out to be male. Fortunately, Sarah took this all in stride. She just found it funny, so I did too.
