Starbucks Upon Tweed

I have been away from the beloved land of Clean Sweep and sheeny, shiny sweatsuits for a week now, and to be thistley honest, I can’t say as I miss it. The heart-pounding world of K Street seems crags away as I gleefully blog and our Euro-bullet train speeds past lush green fields and petworthy sheep furrier than those on Princess Diana’s famed red bah-bah sweaters.

I have oft heard my Jewish friends say that when they set their Tevas upon Israeli soil, an ancestral longing deep within is instantaneously fulfilled. Being in the beautiful, dimly lit land of the Scots, I can now assure you I know exactly how they feel. I never cried or clutched my tartan and clan pin while watching Braveheart, but the moment I stepped onto the cobble-stoned, castle-bedecked streets of Edinburgh, I felt in my very soul that I was a Scottish lass in every sense of the word, connecting with the lifeblood of my Curtis foremothers and fathers. OK, it didn’t hurt in terms of home sweet home heart warmies that there was a Royal Mile Starbucks welcoming me with open arms AND a holiday crème de menthe frappucino. The global economy and U.S. capitalist dominance aren’t just words thrown around by USTR anymore, they are beanscenes found on every corner from High Street to Holyrood. But I digress. Suffice it to say that a Highland country vacation home is very much in my imagined future and a penny-wise, pound foolish piggy bank designed to save for a summer hiking trip in the North has already been established.

TLRL (That Little Red-Headed Lass) :pigtails:

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