….and Back: Again!

Despite the fellowship of my buddies Erik and Terry, the journey back to the lonely mountain of Boston was, well, lonely!

Last week’s flight, if not overloaded with Scots, at least had enough of us to make our presence felt. This time I felt conspicuous as the lone Scotsman on the flight, and my kilt made me stand out even more than usual.

There was one other Scottish fan on the flight, Rich, a Scottish-American from the northern suburbs of Indy. His Scottishness was rather understated, but his two kids, with their bold ginger hair, betrayed their heritage. They were all going to the game, and his wee daughter could barely contain her excitement. She was particularly intrigued by my kilt and shyly asked if I had bagpipes.

I don’t, but I hope my enthusiasm for our shared culture rubbed off on her.

Still, the lack of Scots on the flight made me a little anxious. Had our numbers dwindled? Had the Tartan Army burned itself out?

Of course not!

If the numbers in transit to Boston were fewer than last week, once we got back downtown the Army had, if anything, increased. The streets were filled with kilts and familiar accents.

I was amused to see that Jobi Liquors—the liquor store that was the subject of much amusement in an earlier post—had become something of a tourist attraction. Lines of Scots waited their turn to pose for photos beneath the sign that had become so famous in a country thousands of miles away. A TV crew interviewed the bemused storekeeper, who had only belatedly come to understand the unfortunate name.

After last week’s shenanigans trying to get into The Dubliner, one of the Army’s headquarters, I had taken the precaution of making a reservation this time. However, our flight was delayed by two hours by weather and, by the time we reached the pub, our slot had passed. This time, no amount of smooth talking could get us in.

But where there was Scotland, there was a party.

So many bartenders and servers, all with thick Irish accents, were in the USA on temporary J-1 visas for the summer. What a time those youngsters must be having.

One of them directed us to an overflow patio on the roof of the building next door, and to our surprise we found an open spot on a comfy couch in front of the big screen to watch Switzerland beat Bosnia 4–1. It wasn’t as rowdy as the main bar and was probably the better for that. It brought back memories for Dave and me of a spot with similarly comfy chairs in Doha, where we watched Germany versus Japan last time out.

A pleasant, relaxing start to my second visit to Boston in a week.

And that was pretty much the groove for the rest of the day.

Our Uber driver, Neuradine, arrived to take us to the hotel. An exuberant Moroccan, he talked non-stop about his country and his excitement at attending the game tomorrow. I let slip that I had tentatively proposed Morocco as a vacation destination later this year, which prompted a whistle-stop guided tour of the country. After hearing his enthusiasm, I am sorely tempted.

Random conversations with so many people from all over the globe – for me; that’s the World Cup.

The hotel doorman was Haitian and, recognising my Scotland jersey, launched into praise for our people who had been here this year and his excitement at last Saturday’s game.

Then there were the Mexicans at a local restaurant for Mexico versus South Korea. I searched in vain for a Mexican fiesta in Carmel last week, but had no such trouble finding one here. The restaurant was packed with enthusiastic fans, including a smattering of Koreans.

I didn’t really have a dog in this fight, so with Heung-Min Son playing—one of my all-time favourite players, simply because he always plays with a smile—I went against the majority and cheered for Korea.

There’s a piece of me that is starting to think I’m getting too old for this World Cup stuff.

Especially in the group stages, where it’s wall-to-wall football, and always a game to watch. it really is tiring.

We ran out of steam by half-time and wound our way back to the hotel, stopping off at one more TV screen—a quieter, more subdued affair in the mall beside the hotel—for the last few minutes of the game.

Yes, a piece of me thinks I may be getting too old.

But a much larger piece—the piece with the poor judgement—refuses to believe it.

And so, either side of that Mexican dinner, I got to know the Gourdies, an extended Scottish family who were part of the Army and had taken over the hotel lobby bar.

My people!

There was John and his wife Pauline; her brothers Niven and Scotland (yes, Scotland); Niven’s wife; and various uncles, cousins, and hangers-on too numerous to remember.

I initially struck up a conversation with them because, at least in some lights and from certain angles, John was, in my opinion, the spitting image of John McGinn, one of Scotland’s star players. The family’s amusement at this observation became the subject of many a recurring joke as the evening wore on. Whether anyone else could actually see the resemblance remained open to debate, but that didn’t stop me pointing it out whenever the opportunity presented itself.

They particularly caught my attention because the family splits its time between Gourock, on Scotland’s west coast, where I would catch the ferry across the Firth of Clyde to Dunoon as a boy, and San Diego on the Pacific coast of California.

Quite the range.

Life had taken the five-times-married patriarch of the family—who wasn’t here, and who originally hailed from Gourock—to San Diego many years ago, and the family had been flip-flopping back and forth ever since.

They were an absolute delight, and their effusive Scottishness made me more than a little homesick for a life almost forgotten.

I spent several enjoyable hours swapping stories, telling tales, and singing songs with my brethren.

Fortunately—and I really do mean fortunately, given that my judgement is not always sound—the hotel bar could not offer any Scotch. So, we contented ourselves with wine until the wee hours.

I’m glad the hotel inadvertently applied the brakes. Because the Army is on maneuvers again tomorrow, with the Moroccans firmly in our sights!