When I told friends I was moving to Scotland, they imagined castles, bagpipes, and misty lochs. No one warned me that the real adventure would be… the grocery store.
Shopping here isn’t just buying food — it’s learning a new language.
So far, my shopping dictionary looks something like this:
Eggs = apparently immortal and stored on the shelf, unrefrigerated and unbothered
Juice = pop (yes, fizzy)
Squash = juice (but the kind you water down, like a concentrate)
Jelly = Jell-O
Jam = jelly
Marmalade = jam with a citrus attitude
Cookies = biscuits
Biscuits = scones
Chips = crisps
Fries = chips
Pickles = gherkins (I think — jury’s still out)
Spaghetti squash = ??? (if it exists here, it’s hiding better than Nessie)
Every trip to the store feels like a quiz I didn’t study for. I go in for juice and come out with something labeled tropical squash concentrate – dilute 1:5. The cashier looks utterly calm while I question all my life choices.
By the time I decode my list, I’ve been in Tesco so long I half expect a staff discount.
Still — I love it here. The people are friendly, the countryside’s stunning, and every trip to the supermarket is a crash course in cultural translation.
No wonder I’m in the store all day just trying to translate my grocery list.
Scott in Scotland 