When I started this blog, “Scott in Scotland” was quite literally an American perspective on life in Scotland.
I suppose I need to update the description now.
I’m officially a British citizen.
It feels strange writing that. Not because Scotland doesn’t feel like home — it has for a long time — but because this certainly wasn’t something I imagined when I first visited Scotland years ago.
My first Scottish adventure was actually when I was living in Amsterdam and working for Starbucks. They sent me to Edinburgh for a week to work in one of their stores. I managed to survive making coffee, washing dishes and accidentally exploding a container of whipped cream all over myself. At the time, I certainly wasn’t thinking: one day I’m going to become British.
Then there was another important Amsterdam connection.
Stewart and I got married there in 2009. We wore kilts for the wedding, which seemed perfectly appropriate given that I was marrying a Scotsman. Looking back at those pictures now makes me smile. I was apparently dressing for the job about 17 years early.
We eventually moved to Scotland, bought a house, acquired what sometimes seems like an unreasonable number of animals, and settled into life here. Scotland slowly stopped being the place where I lived and became home.
A few years ago I wrote on this blog about taking the Life in the UK Test. I remember thinking how ridiculous some of the questions seemed and being very relieved when I passed it on my first attempt. At the time I wrote, “Wish me luck!” because citizenship still seemed quite a long way off.
Well, apparently the luck worked.
Earlier this year I finally applied for British citizenship. There were forms, documents, appointments, waiting and quite a lot of checking my email. Eventually the message arrived telling me that my application had been approved.
Then came the citizenship ceremony.
There is something surprisingly meaningful about making the pledge and receiving the certificate. Immigration processes are usually about forms, evidence and proving that you meet a set of rules. The ceremony was different. It made me stop and think about what becoming a citizen actually meant.
I’m still American. I’ll always be American. I still pronounce things incorrectly, occasionally need translations in the supermarket, and I’m not entirely convinced that “squash” should be a drink. Some cultural differences may never be resolved.
But I’m British now too.
More importantly, I feel Scottish.
I’ve lived here long enough that sheep blocking a footpath, unpredictable weather, wellies, dogs covered in mud and arguing about what constitutes a proper biscuit all seem perfectly normal.
Stewart joked years ago that marrying a Scotsman didn’t automatically make me Scottish.
He may need to reconsider his position.
Looking at our Amsterdam wedding photograph now — the two of us standing there in kilts — I can’t help thinking how unlikely this whole journey would have sounded back then.
I married a Scotsman.
I moved to Scotland.
Scotland became home.
And now, officially, I’m a citizen.
Scott in Scotland is here to stay.
Or perhaps I should rename the blog:
Scott is Scotland.
No. That might be taking the citizenship thing a little too far. 😉
Scott in Scotland 