Seven Travel Rules From a Brooding Teenager
You are in Scotland, a country that, as your parents do not seem to understand, has neither sun-drenched beaches (see: Virgin Islands, Hawaii, Crete) nor interesting sights (see: Paris, Venice, Barcelona) nor thrilling, EXTREME!!! experiences that, according to television commercials, are your birthright, as an American Adolescent Male, to participate in (see: bungee-jumping in New Zealand, going on safari in Kenya, rafting the Grand Canyon).

Scotland, instead, offers piles of rocks. That should be its slogan, you are starting to think: “Come to Scotland, We’ve Got Rocks!” Technically, these are considered ruins, although after a few dozen treks through fields thick with heather and/or sheep dung, you are wondering if they were ever castles at all, or if the farmers are given government funding to erect piles of rocks in their fields, the way American farmers get subsidies for corn. It is all a massive scam, you conclude, perpetrated by the Scottish Tourism Ministry.

You, the savvy 18-year-old, have caught on. You have noticed that all of the historic markers say the same thing: “On this site in 14-whatever, Andrew McWhatever fought a courageous battle against blah blah blah.” To be fair, occasionally the text varies. Sometimes his name is Robert McWhatever, or Magnus.

World Hum