Chapter 8-3: Americans in Scotland

Miscommunications run both way. In 1976, Bob drove his parents on a three-week vacation all over Great Britain. They ended up totally lost on the outskirts of Glasgow. When they finally pulled over to the side of the road, his father rolled down the window and asked a local for directions. Bob was relieved that his Dad was nodding his head and responding cheerfully to the local Glaswegian, because he could not understand a word being said. When they pulled away from the curb, Bob turned to his Dad to ask which way to go, at which point his father admitted that he too had absolutely no idea what the man had been saying. Somehow, they managed to find their way to Loch Lomond.

St. Mungo's Feet

In all fairness to my late father-in-law, I lived in Glasgow for nine months and I couldn't understand the locals either. I rented a room in my landlord’s house, and one evening when George, my landlord, was busy preparing his dinner I answered the phone. The lady at the other end asked to speak to someone I had never heard of, so I replied that she had the wrong number. A few minutes later the phone rang again, it was the same lady, and once again I informed her, she had the wrong number. Later, George was to ask me if his mother had called twice that evening. Could have fooled me! So, the English lass from down south was quite a joke in that Scottish household