In 1998, I went to Scotland. I studied there, spent some months learning that Scotland is a country. That, in words later appearing in “Trainspotting,” the English may be wankers, but the Scots were colonized by wankers.
I also learned – no, I set about to learn – to enjoy drinking Scotch.
And I did.
Nineteen years later, sipping my nightly Oban (it tastes like pussy, apparently), I’m a bit awed. It’s not an easy task to appreciate. But damn.