A"WEE" BIT OF SCOTTISH FLAVOR IN TRIESTE

       I NEVER KNOW what the day will bring because I rarely have a plan,  which allows for the unexpected and leaves me open to the element of surprise. 

Some days I set out on foot and walk for miles discovering the city's sights. 

Other days I hop on one of the buses that travel to all parts of the city and the neighboring towns and coastal villages, enjoying the colorful array of passengers that get on and off the bus, and the views along the way. Sometimes I get off in a remote area or town and hail one of the citizens to guide me to the sight I've seen from the window of the bus.  There, I walk a beaten path soaking up the beautiful scenery along the way and ending up waiting at another bus stop in a different town. No problem, though, as all roads lead to Rome!  Traveling by bus is a great way for me to see and enjoy all that the area has to offer; and at a cost of $25.00 for a two week ticket with unlimited rides on three bus lines, I can count on an interesting experience or encounter along the way.   

      

      One day in particular I decided to satisfy my curiosity and walk to the lighthouse at the end of the harbor that had intrigued me since I first viewed it from a boat on my way back from a day in Muggia.  It seemed close enough when I set out that morning, but remained illusive, for no matter what path I took in its direction it always ended in a dead end with the lighthouse beckoning in the distance.  I was just about to give in to exhaustion and accept the fact that the lighthouse was unobtainable on foot when the voice said keep going and sent me in a different direction.  Twenty minutes later the lighthouse neared and with a renewed optimism I took a side street beside a marina thinking I could reach it by following along the waterfront. 

       Situated beside the marina was a restaurant with a terrace and outdoor seating.  It was a warm day and the two men dressed in kilts seated at one of the tables caught my photographer’s eye. I thought. Dare I ask? Go for it! The voice answered.        
       I walked over to where the (presumed) Scots were drinking a beer and held up my camera so they could not possibly misunderstand my intentions. “Excuse me,” I said from below, “do you mind if I take your picture?”  The man with the feathered tam appeared to be flattered by my request and without hesitation said, “Why not,” and along with his mates, positioned himself for a pose.  Now my curiosity was aroused and I wanted to know what three Scots were doing in Trieste.  That’s when the man with the tam who later introduced himself as, Andy, said, “Would you like to join us now for a drink?”  Normally I would decline an invitation from a stranger, but for some reason, be it the mens' warm smiles, a parched mouth, or my need to rest the weary feet that had just tromped miles on the hot pavement, I accepted.

      Once I joined the men on the terrace I was offerd a seat, and without any further ado the dialogue began.  They explained that they were, indeed, from Scotland, and part of a group of ardent followers who had come to support their team for a friendly game (I can’t remember if it was football or rugby) against a Slovenian team, hence the kilts. They went on to say in their thick Scottish brogues that I sometimes had to strain to understand, that a large group of their mates and ladies would gather at the pub across the street from the marina that evening, and they invited me, no urged me, to come and have a front row seat to a “real Scottish celebration.”

       That evening as I dressed for the party I wondered if I should resist the “experience,” play it safe, and stay at home.  The voice said, go!  Half an hour later I was on the #9 bus that would drop me a short distance from the pub.  When I arrived several men in kilts were standing outside.

      Inside, all of the expected crowd had not yet arrived, but those that were present, to include the three men from earlier in the day, extended a warm greeting, and as quickly as I found a seat, I had a glass of dark Guinness (my favorite Irish stout) in my hand. 

      “Ah, yurrr (roll the r) the lady with the blog,” many said.  “We’ll give ya plenty to write about, lassie!  Yuv not seen a celebration ‘til yuv partied with the likes of a Scot!”  The man with his daughter seated next to me kept repeating, “Yuv neverr seen anathin like it in yurr life!”  

       

What with the enthusiastic intro and the fun-packed activities that followed there was absolutely no way for a person of right mind not to join in. The next four hours found me dividing my time between participant and observer, enjoying a great group of men and women getting the most out of every moment.

I was struck by the outward display of comradery,

their party spirit, and above all their tremendous pride of country which came through loud and clear in song.

They made sure that my glass was never empty, and in between the fun, my camera was capturing those special moments. 

They were Scots all right!...

those members of the Anderson, Ross, McArthur, Symonds and McKeazie clans, to mention some, all outfitted  in their kilts and accessories; no two tartans alike.  And there was no exaggeration of the fact that the Scots definitely know how to "do a celebration!"  

~~

      Did I ever make it to the lighthouse that day?  Yes, it took another twenty-five minutes to reach it, but it was a bitter disappointment and better viewed from afar with its reflection cast upon the sea. Without my desire to see it, though, I would never have had that memorable "wee" moment with that great group of Scots. 

~~