Scottish NYC

Only a month left 'til I'm off on international adventures, and three until I go to Edinburgh. Until then, though, I have NYC. Today I went to a nice little Scottish restaurant called St. Andrews, after getting quite lost, and passing it once. I was blinded by the Irish pub next door. Scots, keep know this, the Irish want to confuse Americans with their vivid green bars and draw them away from your drab, brown pubs. So sad.

We got in, and were greeted by our waiter. He had quite a brogue, and my mom couldn't understand him. Then came the kicker - that lad was wearing a kilt. Well, I was lost then and there.

The most interesting thing was that we felt like true rowdy Americans visiting another country, mostly because the service was, well, a little lackluster. We needed to change our order once, and trying to get a waiter or waitress to pay attention was as hard as getting a visa (... yes, I am not good at this game). I think our waiter noticed this, and in the middle of completely ignoring us, bent over another table, like a sly Japanese school girl. He got his full tip.

Besides that, the food was wonderful, we had a obligatory but spirited discussion of haggis, and quite enjoyed ourselves. Oh, and I got to try Irn Bru, pronounced Iron-Brew, because honestly, that's how Scotland rolls. This delicacy is a caffeinated confection (a soda, in non-pompous terms) and is more popular in Scotland that Coca-cola. And perhaps Coke. Both kinds. Supposedly, it works wonders on hangovers.

Anyway, it tastes like liquefied cotton candy. And it's orange. Radioactive orange. And I can't wait to stay up drinking it every night. Have a wonderfully low-quality picture.

Stay turned for the wonderful, adventurous tales of... me packing. And exploring the wonders of a money belt. Yes, you're stuck with me for another few months. Dreadfully sorry.

- Arisu. Who is sorry.