I can't even begin to count the number of times I get raised eyebrows, smirks and giggles when I give out my email address. No, my boyfriend's name is not Scot (it's Stephen, in case you're curious). No, I don't love all boys named Scott. In fact, my history has been populated with Chris', not Scott's. But that's another entry entirely...and a helluva lot of therapy.

My screen name/email stems from a love of all things Scottish. And from the antics of a trip abroad in the summer of 1994, where I spent most of my free time in Scotland. In fact, my love of Scottish men and their brogues was reinforced during a sojourn I made while I was in the UK.

I had made it to Dunkeld with no problems. That was to be the end of my carefree day. I disembarked my train, fully expecting to find a taxi stand. Oh, I figured on a wait, realizing that there would probably be on one or two taxis at the most in this remote part of the country. Ah, the misconceptions of Americans! There was no taxi stand, only a small sign heralding a pedestrian walkway of 2 miles to Birnam or 1 ½ miles to Dunkeld. Adventure, I mumbled to myself as I tied my jacket around my waist and hoisted my backpack more securely into place and set out on my mini trek. I was feeling very good about the whole thing, walking down a lovely path, when an older man greeted me with, "Och, nice day for a walk, eh, lassie? And yer not from ‘ere. Where ye be gettin' off to?" Nice guy, I thought, as I answered with certainty, "Dunkeld!" He shook his head and said, "Wrong way then. Yer heading off to Birnam Wood. Dunkeld's about 2 miles the other way, I'd wager." Miserable old..."Thanks," I mumbled as I flushed and turned around. I walked the pleasant 2 ½ miles to the town and spent a relaxing afternoon visiting the ruins of Dunkeld Cathedral, shopping, and combing the town for a glimpse of my idol, Dougie MacLean. Well, I met his wife, bought his new tape and realized I had better begin my trek back to the station.

Again, the weather was cool, a nice break from the sweltering London humidity and the people along the path threw me a smile, no doubt knowing I wasn't a local. At least this time I walked in the right direction. I reached the station early and sat down with my pack and purchases to await the train which would take me back to Edinburgh. A train pulled in depositing passengers and continued on its way. I paid no mind to this event except to make certain it wasn't the train I was supposed to be on.

However, I did notice a dark haired man in his 30's sitting on the next bench. He smiled and so did I. I looked back to the book I was pretending to read as I surveyed the man on the bench and then saw an elderly gentleman lurching towards me. His eyes were bleary, from drink I was soon to discover. He smiled at me, and I returned the gesture. He sat on the bench next to me and said hello. I responded nicely. He began a line of inquiry-where had I been? What was in my packages? Now, I've always prided myself on my ability to decipher a Scot's brogue. So imagine my chagrin when my drunken friend said, "What a are ya?" I racked my brain. He looked at me expectantly. I asked him to repeat his question. He did. I began to have a coughing fit that would rival a tuberculosis patient, all to buy myself some time. I quickly decided he must mean, "what area are you from?"

Happily I responded, "Oh, I'm staying in Edinburgh, but I'm from the US originally." His congenial mood deflated.

"Are ye retarded?" he bellowed. "I dinnae ask where yer from. That's as plain as the nose on me face, ye Yank. I asked what AGE are ye?"

Meekly I replied, "21," and I was terrified. See what talking to strangers had wrought? He became more and more agitated. He clutched at my arm and began to cry. I was near tears myself. He finally lumbered to his feet and I quickly scrambled to the next bench with the dark haired man I had smiled at earlier.

I meekly enquired if I could join him. He grinned up at me and said, "Oh, of course lass. I was keepin' me eye on ye. The old gent's a bit daft and drunk, to be sure, but I'd not be lettin' harm befall ye. No worries, eh?" Well, Thank God! I smiled my thanks and luckily our train approached shortly thereafter.

Now, a whole new set of problems emerged. At five feet tall, I'm what the politically correct deem, "vertically challenged," and what most of the cretins I've encountered in my lifetime term, "jaysus, but you're short!" Now, as the train pulled in, I noticed with some growing trepidation bordering on horror that the platform was a good three feet BENEATH the entrance to the train. This was going to pose a problem, I knew, and I am no astrophysicist. Tears began to well in my eyes as I contemplated spending even more time on the platform with the crying drunkard who thought I was mentally incapacitated.

However, my Scottish knight in shining armor came to my rescue once again. He grabbed my backpack and my coveted watercolor painting I'd purchased in Dunkeld, held out his bronzed hand and pulled me effortlessly aboard the train. He offered me to sit with him and I readily accepted. Did I mention his grey, quicksilver eyes and thick black hair...and his accent? Well, perhaps my memories are a bit colored. But I did sit and talk with this marvelous man for the nearly three hour train ride back to Edinburgh.

And thus my love of Scottish men began...