Date: Thursday, October 12, 2006. Time: 7:40 p.m. Place: Somewhere over the Atlantic. Northwest Airlines flight to Scotland. For the weekend. Excitement level: High to Dangerously-high.
I had gotten stuck next to an overly garrulous woman who decided to shove both her conversation and large carry-on bag into my territory for the next seven hours: Seat 26D.
“Did you know Scotland is the best small country in the world?” she said, more as a demand than a question. “Sure,” I responded, slightly confused. “I know.”
To be frank, I didn’t know much about Scotland as of three weeks ago. And so when I heard the government was sending me and three other college journalists to their country for a four-day, all-expenses paid press tour, I thought, “Where’s the catch?” And the funny thing is that there was none. The best things in life are free, after all, right?
“Scotland: The best small country in the world” just happens to be the ambitious catch phrase of the Scottish Executive, or the government that retains powers separate from the United Kingdom. As explained to me—and as is apparent at the official tourist website www.scotlandistheplace.com—the Scots are working to market their country to the world at large.
First Minister Jack W. McConnell instituted the “Fresh Talent” initiative in 2004 to attract young people to Scotland to live and work in order to calm the forever-growing paranoia of declining population and increasing age demographic. And I, as a journalist, would absorb all the factoids of Scotland beyond the stereotypical kilts, bagpipes, Scotch, haggis, sensationalist journalism, and redheads and write about them in an intricate weaving of prose for Harvard students to read.
Reality is amusingly flawed, however, and this trip proved no exception. My inability to learn about a whole country in one weekend was confirmed by my incessant jet lag. The choice of the comedian at the local comedy club to pick on me for a full three minutes was only slightly entertaining (cue to excessive blushing in reaction to American tourist clichés). And getting four golf balls off the ground out of about 200 at the driving range at University of Stirling wasn’t an experience I would call inspiring.
The constant pitch of Scotland as “the place to be” culminated in a lunch with an American woman who realized she hadn’t “truly lived” until her plane landed in Edinburgh three years ago, setting off a psychosomatic reaction communicating through ESP that she had reached her destiny. Convincing? Not so sure. I still have yet to undergo such an encounter with larger powers.
At the very least, I’ve tried to incorporate Scotland into my “personal repertoire.” For me, home is not the quaint town of Edinburgh or the tall castles of Europe. For better and for worse, my roots remain in New Jersey. But while I will always remain loyal to that widely disparaged municipal territory, with its less-than picturesque turnpike, chutzpah-infused accent, and uniquely fragrant shore breeze, I’m thankful for the opportunity to participate in such a thrilling tour.
The whirlwind weekend was centered around David—my temporary grandfather during our stay (or so I dreamed)—who drove us everywhere during the week. Though his previous passengers had included Beyoncé Knowles and Christina Aguilera, he assured me that I’m (almost) as cool. I’ll take that. A free tour of the parliament building and a tourist-centric ghost tour of Edinburgh were matched with champagne, golf lessons from a pro, and an introduction to the infamous pubs. And even though my quest to find my prince of the United Kingdom only got as far as beers with distracted rugby players, it still classified as a good time.
So if I wasn’t going to be able to disseminate concrete information about Scotland to my peers and if the trip was a fleeting assortment of events, what was the point of the weekend in the end? To be honest, I’m not so sure. While I’d like to believe that the government—along with New Jersey-based (!) PR agency MWW Group—strategically planned their efforts to recruit a member of The Crimson’s staff for the sake of Scotland, the lack of systematization to their efforts left them seemingly haphazard.
Plus, while The Crimson does get door-dropped to all undergrads at Harvard, I’m going to go out on a limb and say it doesn’t have much change-the-world potential on a global scale. All I can be sure of ultimately remains within the domains of my personal life—I had a fun weekend, I learned a lot, and I’m thankful for the experience. End of sentence. I remain skeptical about whether the knowledge of Scotland’s Fresh Talent initiative will suddenly inspire Harvard students to flock to the country, or how a quick peek into my positive weekend will boost travel plans.
Though my transatlantic jaunt—no matter how glamorous and exciting I made it in my head—did not have the potential to teach me what it’s like to live in Scotland, I got a first-rate glimpse. In the end, although I’ll ultimately have to submit to always being a Jersey girl, I will forever strive to incorporate new homes into my life, and I’m glad I got to add Scotland to the list.
—Nicole B. Urken ’07 is a Social Studies concentrator in Kirkland House. Though she laments she will never be Scottish, she does admit to highlighting her hair red. She is still not sure if she should have told airport security if her trip was for business or pleasure.
