There are many ways to feel disoriented in a foreign country: the jet lag, the currency, the alarming number of sheep. But nothing scrambles your brain quite like arriving in Scotland, walking into a Glasgow pub, and realizing you speak fluent English—just not this version of it.

And so, after a long flight from Denver, I stepped out into the Glasgow sun — a meteorological event so rare it should be commemorated with coins. The city, filled with vitamin D-starved Scots, responded exactly as you’d expect: by evacuating every building and lying shirtless in public parks, sidewalks, and any patch of grass available. I have never seen so many pasty people sunbathe next to traffic cones with such confidence.

“It’s like cadavers emerging to catch a rare sunny day,” Ian said.  

Ian was a guy I met three years ago, somewhere in the Colorado Rockies while hiking the Colorado Trail — a 35-day hike covering 486 miles. We became adventure buddies in the most scientific way possible: prolonged exposure to altitude and the mutual understanding that it’s perfectly acceptable to eat ramen with the same spoon you just dropped in the dirt.

Fast-forward to this summer, and Ian and I found ourselves in Scotland, gearing up to hike the West Highland Way — a 96-mile trek through the Highlands that promised dramatic scenery and—most importantly—daily pub access.  

We spent our first day in Glasgow acclimating to the time zone and immersing ourselves in the rich local culture — by which I mean, conducting an ethnographic beverage study involving multiple pints of Guinness.  

That’s how I found myself ordering a pint at a cozy pub.  As I stood there, this older Scottish man — the kind of guy who looks like he was forged from diesel fumes turned to me and said–and I’m quoting directly—“Htlldoofrrlffen”

Which, to me, sounded less like a question and more like a foghorn choking on a harmonica.

Naturally, I responded the way any well-educated adult would when confronted by an unintelligible growl:

Me: “What?”

Him: “Htlldoofrrlffen”
Me: “Uh….What??”

Him: “Htlldoofrrlffen”

Me: “Oh…Umm….Flrrrnngguhhh…blarghpffftle??”

At which point his buddy, sensing my panic and made up syllables, leaned over and helpfully translated into recognizable English: “He’s asking what you do for a living.”

Now, there are two ways to handle this:

1. Explain that you’re a professional economist who writes about Medicaid and Colorado fiscal policy, which is confusing even when not shouted over bagpipe-infused pub rock,
   or
2. Pretend you’re deaf.

So  I pointed at my ear, nodded solemnly, and pretended to know sign language while making hand motions like I was casting a spell on a goat. Because honestly, “I’m hard of hearing” is just easier than saying: “I CAN’T UNDERSTAND YOU BECAUSE YOU’RE SPEAKING IN WHAT I ASSUME IS ANCIENT, AGED IN A BOG FOR 12 YEARS, FERMENTED GAELIC FOG-MOUTH.”

It was a great night.  

I became acquainted with some vowels I’d never met before — and a few I’m pretty sure were just phlegmy consonants pretending. Mostly from trial and error, I was able to develop the following guide for speaking in Glasgow, Scotland.

Step 1: Eliminate Half the Vowels

Take every word and remove at least one vowel — preferably the one that makes the word understandable. If the sentence still makes sense, remove another.

Step 2: Grumble and Nod 

Make a noise like your throat is digesting gravel, then nod as if you’ve just received a grim prophecy.

Step 3: Add at Least One “Yah Prick” Every Four Sentences

It’s not even meant aggressively — it’s like punctuation.

Examples: 

“Nice Weather, yah prick.”  

“Another pint, yah prick?”

“I want you to know I take full responsibility for the structural collapse of the gazebo, 

and I intend to pay the dry cleaning bill, that said, I’m deeply sorry for what happened at your wedding reception… yah prick.”

Here’s some helpful practice: 

Translate this into Glasgow English:  “Hello, I’m an American economist. I enjoy hiking and local beer.”

Correct Answer: “Hrrghhh—murr’ka—mudlegs—foamy pint—slipped in sheep poo—YAH Prick!”

Was I fully fluent in Glasgow by the end of the night? Absolutely not.

But I was full of Guinness, slightly sunburned, and officially ready to walk across a country that might not understand me — but would definitely still offer me a pint.

The next morning, Ian and I would shoulder our packs and begin the West Highland Way — 96 miles of rain, sheep, bogs, and stunning green rolling mountains. But for now, I had my bearings, my boots, and a working knowledge of how to survive in Scotland using only nods and vowel-free grunts.

Adventure was calling. And it had an accent I still couldn’t fully understand.

(stay tuned for part 2 and part 3, Yah Prick)