Within 24 hours of being in Scotland, I thought I had been accused of shoplifting. Aside from the occasional “souvenir-keeping” from the walls of various Collegetown establishments, I’m no thief.

When “The Incident” took place, I had just spent an endless night and the morning after cramped in coach class on a Continental flight. After spending most of the flight either waiting impatiently for my Benadryl to kick in or engaging in a seven-hour staring contest with the Scot in the adjacent seat, upon my arrival all I wanted was a cup of coffee.

Unsuspectingly, I ventured into Bean Scene, the first café I found in the village of St. Andrews. After ordering a medium drip with skim, I watched as the barista filled a paper cup and placed it on the counter before me — without a lid. Thinking to myself, “Oh, they must not use wasteful plastic lids here,” I grabbed the cup, and was confronted with a question.

“Heya are ya takin’ away?”

I’m very familiar with Scottish accents, but I hadn’t the slightest idea what the woman behind the register was asking me. I assumed she thought I was shoplifting, so I quickly dropped the cup and began to fumble around for a few quid (bucks) so I could pay the lady before she decided to call Officer MacGregor down the road.

“No, no. Are ya takin’?”

“No ma’am, I’m literally about to pay! I’m so sorry, of course I’m not taking!”

“So you’d like a mug then?”

Turns out “Heya” means “Hello” not “Yo! Quit stealing!” and someone who is “Takin’ away” simply needs a to-go cup instead of a sit-in mug. So yes, I would be takin’, but I surely wasn’t stealin’. Holding back a bellyful of laughter, the very patient barista placed a lid on my coffee, while I sheepishly walked out of the establishment.

A bit shaken up from my near run-in with Scotland Yard, I returned to my dorm, which was completely empty. As anyone who knows me at all can confirm, I’m a stickler for punctuality, so of course I wanted to get to St. Regulus Hall at the University of St. Andrews on the earliest possible date, just in case something — anything — should go wrong and thereby cause me to be (gasp) late for the start of my semester abroad.

Big mistake. For the first day and a half abroad, it looked like it was going to be just me and the warden of my hall, a convivial lady with the fattest and dumbest Basset Hound I have ever seen.

So while I sat in my room, reflecting on what I thought of Caledonia (Scotland, duh) thus far, it dawned on me that Scots aren’t all that different from Americans. We’re both a bit abrasive. The lifestyle in Scotland — just like the whiskey — is a bit stronger than in America, and a bit more, well, smoky. It’s a delicate blend of robustness yet kindness that you won’t find in the States. The people aren’t rude, but they’re not the type to keep their thoughts to themselves.

If you walk in front of a car at an intersection in the States, you’ll hear, “Watch out, I’m drivin’ here!” and the car will zoom past with no concern for pedestrian welfare. In Scotland, however, you’ll hear, “For Pete’s sake! But watch yourself, love!” and the car will stop short to let you pass. Dissatisfaction is expressed, but it’s not the focus of the driver/ pedestrian exchange.

The streets, the food and even the warden’s overweight dog all have an air of history that is unlike anything on our side of the Atlantic. In fact, it’s unlike anything else in the United Kingdom, as Scotland’s legacy is one of constant struggles for independence and for a unique identity to separate it from England. A Scot will proudly let you know that he or she is not from England, though it’s usually easy to tell the just by hearing a person’s accent.

And just like the tolerant woman at Bean Scene, Caledonians are always ready to laugh, not only at themselves but at you as well, though without any malicious intent. Most of the study abroad students I have met have heard the story of the Haggis — not the food, but the animal. The elusive Haggis is a mystical animal with legs that differ in length. A native of the Scottish Highlands, the Haggis is traditionally hunted with a fork. This piece of folklore is told to unsuspecting tourists who consistently express shock and chagrin at the notion.

The joke is as old as the country itself, and of course, no such animal exists. While it may seem like nobody would ever possibly fall for this trick, I’d probably get out a fork and go hunting if Scottish native Sean Connery told me the tale. RLD