The Art of Communication

I am off-schedule this week due to travels. Nothing nearly as befuddling as a trip to Scotland last spring but, rather, a journey comfortable as an old sweater to spend time with a son and his family.

The Art of Communication

On a train to Glasgow

a porter pushed a cart containing

food and drink, offering selections

in an accent so thick

I understood but a single "Awrite,

Darlin'" before his words jumbled

my ears.

Before an affable citizen directed me

to a street he called "Sucky Hall"

in that hilly, chilly, windy city.

Before Google Maps failed me,

and the sign labeled Sauchiehall

made sense two rainy blocks

and an inverted umbrella later.

Before I ordered haggis unaware

of its makeup: sheep's "pluck"

- heart, liver, and lungs -

at the waiter's suggestion

for a savory starter,

and served with a trace of a smile.

Before a taxi driver baffled me

with "Hou's it gaun?"

Before I discovered a lingua franca

spoken in those Lowlands:

"A glass of scotch, please."

Before a briefly raised eyebrow

hinted at an order

a bit more than an expected "wee dram."

Marilyn Aschoff Mellor