As if she thinks a real young person would lie about being 45

Aberdeen represents a fork in the road that preceded me: My parents lived here until just under a year before I was born. Any time I visit — my mother and sister live here now — I think about what a close call it was. If my dad’s job hadn’t shifted such that he sought other employment, I might have grown up in this small city in the northeast of Scotland. Aberjean.

Cringing as my loud American voice rings out through a muted playground, I fear that it wouldn’t have gone too well. This isn’t the fault of Aberdeen. It’s a nice place. It’s the fault of me, of my constitution. This is a granite city, and I am not a granite lady. I am a fragile Yank, struck down by a mold-induced sinus infection after one night in a clammy holiday flat, accommodation I booked in an attempt to protect my extended family from my children in the early throes of jet lag. Joke’s on me!

We relocate to my mother’s new home after a third night of nocturnal coughing and sneezing, and I begin a correspondence regarding the clammy flat with a support agent. It appears to be a chatbot that doesn’t have sinuses. I feel this is a shortcoming.

*

Eric is a very good sport in Scotland. He takes on the various challenges of being here —left-side driving, cold water swimming, falconry — with vim and alacrity. But he is a little shocked when he enters a cafe called Bagel Society and witnesses the patrons eating their bagels out of bowls with knives and forks. We depart, bagel-free, and agree that if we ever move to Aberdeen (always possible, though unlikely), we will open an authentic bagel shop and call it Bagel Shtetl.

In Scotland, Eric is able to indulge in culturally-inappropriate behavior and get away with it. He is a free spirit. For example, when our children splash through the waves at the beach despite being fully clothed, he goes and buys towels for them at a beachside home goods store. We didn’t come prepared for immersion because it’s 62F, and our children are cold-averse at home. B won’t get in the community pool if the sun isn’t blazing, but now when his rolled-up jeans wick North Sea water up to his waist, he doesn’t flinch. Perhaps it’s in the blood.

Eric, I whisper when he gets back with his fluffy purchases, This is Scotland, you can’t just buy a new towel. Everyone gets one towel for life.

I know, he says. I’m profligate!

If I grew up in Aberdeen, I’d be married to a man named Andrew or Barry, and he wouldn’t purchase a towel in such a circumstance; never. I’m not casting aspersions here. I respect the culture.

*

Aberdeen is good for writing. A catalyst. On the eighth day of the trip I finish the first draft of my novel, sitting at the writing desk in my mom’s guest room, which I’m pleased to report is spacious and mold-free. On the other side of the door, the whole family is making pizzas and I am ignoring them. Sorry, guys, I’m an artist!

The pizza isn’t ready when I finish. Since I’m at my laptop, I draft another missive to the chatbot about my allergies.

I have no valid evidence of the problem, the chatbot responds.

It’s a fair point. I didn’t take a video of the mold. The chatbot doesn’t know me, and how Scottish I am, how stoic. It’s unaware that I will endure extreme circumstances of physical discomfort on a vacation before I complain, like the time in the Highlands when I ate quite a bit of breakfast cereal that tasted like soap because I didn’t want to be difficult or rude.

(It turned out the woman running the bed and breakfast had stored the cereal in the Tupperware she also used for laundry detergent.)

For valid evidence, I consider sending the chatbot a photograph of my nightstand: Inhaler, nasal spray, mug crusted with the remains of my latest cup of Lemsip. Lemsip is basically Tylenol and Sudafed in the form of a lemon-ish hot beverage, not for sale in the United States. A special treat for my special Scottish sinus infection.

*

At the little supermarket by my mom’s, the lady working the cash register asks me for ID, even though Eric is the one buying beer. I forgot that is a thing in this country: You can’t purchase alcohol in the company of someone who looks too young to drink it, but likely to. Anyone adult-sized who appears to be under the age of 25 needs to show photo ID.

Oh, I say, I don’t have it with me, but I’m 45.

I grin.

The woman looks at me as if she thinks a real young person would lie about being 45.

You’re very lucky, she says. She does not grin.

Do you want my ID? Eric says.

The woman looks at him.

No, she says.

Not with the grey in your beard, I say.

If you didn’t dye your hair you’d have a grey beard, too, he says.

I love it here! I say.

*

As we did not have valid evidence I would not be able to take any action on host listing I tried my level best to get in touch with host, but he did not respond, the chatbot says.

I swig my LemSip.

It’s fine, I write back.

JHE