Men In Skirts

The "Scozzese" (Scottish) people have invaded Roma. They're here for some big sporting event, probably Rugby, maybe soccer. They're all over the place, in small groups, beer bottles in hand, walking along the sidewalks and in the piazzas.

They're easy to spot. They're the ones wearing plaid skirts...well, okay, "kilts." But, I say, a skirt is a skirt is a kilt. And, call me crazy, but seeing a man walking along with his hem line swinging... it gives me the vapors! I mean, they're really cute!

They come here every year en masse. (Do you really think a single Scotsman is going to travel to a foreign city dressed like a catholic school girl ALONE?)

I like these guys. They're my people. My Scottish genes get all perky when I see them. I wonder, do I look like them? Is my Scottishness evident? When I see Polish people I always think they look like The Man, but he's straight Polish, not a mixed breed like me.

I probably look more like my French side of the family. Too bad.

Five or six years ago we ran into a bunch of Scotsmen near the Vatican. They were finishing lunch at an outdoor cafe. One man brought out his pipes and started playing. I just stood there frozen, tears streaming down my face. The Man was embarassed, looking at me like I'd finally shut the door and turned out the lights on my sanity. He told me to stop it. But, I couldn't. I just couldn't. I had to cry, you know? For the piper. For my inner Scottish child that yearns to run through the highlands and sing sad folk songs at the top of her lungs.

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!
For whom my warmest wish to heaven is sent;
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content.

Robert Burns
The Cotter's Saturday Night.