Meeting the Neighbors…

After our first Christmas here, when we left baked goods for the neighbors on both side, and received no acknowledgment from one, and a “well, we don’t really like…” comment from the other, we realized that we probably would never quite “get” our neighbors… so, we stopped trying. And then, when our interactions with the neighbors in the SECOND flat usually involved a lot of texting, phone calls, and, eventually, the police, we thought that they’d suspect the baked goods of being dusted with powdered sugar and strychnine. *mumblemumblemumble*

Suffice it to say, we’d well given up on the idea of neighbors, realizing that there will be no replacement for Tom and Leora, for Kit and Rob and D’Ann and her boys and Ron and his family, and all the other neighbors with which we were on at least nodding acquaintance at home, if not stop in the garage and gossip acquaintance. We have made no attempt to do anything more than be cordial in the stairwell on the rare occasion we actually see any of the other denizens of this building. Having an entire floor to yourself (much smaller than it actually sounds) means that Neighbor Sightings (or Neighbour, sightings, as it were) are quite rare. Thus, we were pretty amused to find that we are acquainted with at least two people whose flats are within line of sight.

One is Dr. Sutherland, T’s taciturn gentleman physician who openly admits that he is not “sociable,” but told us cheerfully about the old school building in which he lives, and noted that he likes people-watching in the park in the middle of the crescent, but never joins in “that sort of thing.” We were amused; if people are giving a barbecue (complete with BILLOWING smoke) in the middle of the park, is everyone automatically invited to join in? Is this some tenet of Glaswegian hospitality of which we had not previously been apprised? We assured him that we haven’t gone down to a party, either, but enjoy tromping through the park as a short cut when coming home from the library or work.

The second acknowledgment of neighbors was later in the week, and much more of a funny coincidence than we’d previously realized. During our castle tour on Friday (more on that later), we met a girl who was standing with us in a stairwell crammed with people, trying to see the glass case of coronation gowns which at which we were stopped. T. motioned they could swap places, and the woman whispered, “Where are you from?” “California,” is T’s usual prompt response, to short circuit the usual 20 Questions version of this conversation with international students. “No, I mean, what part?” the woman asked, and T. stared at her. “Northern. San Francisco Bay Area.” “San Diego,” she said happily. Ah, T. thought. So the West Coast non-accent is recognizable to others. The two smiled at each other, and let the tour guide usher them along.

Later, the two found each other in an alcove stuffed with china. As the guide discussed the papier mâché ceiling treatment at length,the woman, looking somewhat miserable in her short coat and golf cap — and wet cloth shoes — shivered. (Of course it bucketed while we tried to see sixteen acres of fabulous gardens. Of course it did.) Both T. and the woman looked out the window, and sighed in unison, then laughed. “Are you another vet student?” T. asked, “No, law,” the woman said, then launched into a whispered account of how she’d come to Scotland, mentioned her children, and that her sister had come before her, and told her it was a doable program.

T. briefly envied her having her sister so close, as she misses hers terribly, and then she frowned. “Hey, wait. Does your sister have a son?” T. discovered that she’d met the woman’s sister the previous summer, on the Highlands trip. T. introduced her to D., and said, “It’s Søren’s auntie!” The three of us marveled at the coincidence. Later, as we poked around the castle kitchen, D. said for T’s ears only, “She’s got the Scando kids!”

T. turned. “What?”

“That pack of kids who are always running around the park in capes and stuff. Those are all hers!

And B., who has those remarkably good mother ears (after four children, one would expect so) said, “Scando kids?” And we had to explain the whole thing.

So, our little role-players are not Scandinavian after all, just rather white-blonde and fond of running around in costumes in the garden. Their parents have cheerfully dragged them into a world full of magic and wonder, and they’re having the time of their lives, finding castles and dungeons and dragons under every bush. A perfectly happy American childhood in Glasgow.

So, now we know a few people to bake for, at least. When we turn the oven back on…

– D & T

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