I was having an identity crisis, so I decided to fly to Scotland for the day. No one seemed to like Americans because they were ignorant and obnoxious, and though I was trying to combat this stereotype as much as possible, it felt like someone had taken a Sharpie and scribbled “USA” across my forehead. I did not want to be American today: I wanted to be like my Scottish ancestors, and I was going to prove it by climbing to the highest point in Edinburgh.
Google Maps rated the hike to Arthur’s Seat a two out of five. I’d already walked nine miles today, fueled by a crappy sandwich I’d picked up from Tesco, a creative European blend of the Dollar Store and Walmart. This trail would be easy.
My comrades, Jack Murphy and Natalie Green, were also a fine pair of cross-cultural specimens. With a mystical aesthetic, Natalie easily fit the United Kingdom’s mold, especially with a surname like “Green.” Jack Murphy was a true Irish nationalist. He’d already made it apparent that he wasn’t American because his family was originally from Dublin, and no one else could measure up to Ireland’s greatness. It didn’t matter to him that my family had also immigrated to the States at the same time. To him, I simply wasn’t Irish enough.
Well, I was going to prove the haters wrong. I was Irish and Scottish. My ancestors were part of the ancient kingdom of Dál Riata, and I had my father’s decades of DNA research to back it up. I came from a line of kings!
A reluctant companion, Natalie shivered in the rain at my elbow as we started up to Arthur’s Seat. Locals walked dogs and pushed strollers along the paved path despite the persistent wet mist. The trail switch-backed to the peak of what had once been an active volcano. It looked like someone had taken a frisbee and jammed it into the side of the mountain to create the overlook, the end of which peered across Edinburgh.
Families meandered by, laughing and carrying on. A trio of grandmothers in their eyeglasses and cardigans marched past me. Jack had already left Natalie and me behind, so I lengthened my stride to catch up, tugging Natalie after me.
The trail split.
The smooth, concrete path with the grandmothers and strollers went to the right, but the route that led up—to Arthur’s Seat—was covered in boulders and thistles. For a moment, I considered being a true American and following the concrete, but Dál Riatans didn’t choose concrete.
Ten minutes later, I left an exhausted Natalie behind on a rock to await my return. The earthy scent of clay filled my nostrils, and raindrops rolled down my cheeks. On its way in, oxygen scraped my lungs. A two-out-of-five hike indeed. This was like climbing Mount Doom!
People hobbled down the trail like bloodied soldiers returning from an epic battle in the trenches. My ancestors were warriors, too, but I wasn’t feeling particularly heroic in my dripping Costco coat, which hadn’t been tailored for the U.K.’s weather. I found Jack not long after, his burly shoulders hunched against the unfavorable weather. Face redder than a fire engine, he huffed chugs of steamy breath and glanced back. I staggered past him.
The mist lifted a little, and I glimpsed Arthur’s Seat above me. A white marble throne marked the top, but another eighty feet of rocky trail separated me from it.
One snowboot-clad foot in front of the other, I crawled the rest of the way to it. I collapsed onto my knees and gulped in the high-altitude, city-smog air, glancing around for a medal or fireworks to signal that I, a Dál Riatan by descent, had returned to her homeland.
No one acknowledged me.
I glanced at the white marble throne and snorted. It wasn’t what I’d expected. It was just a cracked monolith pointing to nowhere because the top had been shorn off. Perhaps ancient kings weren’t what they used to be.
I dismissed the throne and allowed the view of Edinburgh to pull me toward the edge of the cliff. Cawing crows circled the sky near my feet, sweeping in and out of the mist like dive planes. A fierce wind whipped my jacket and almost tossed me into the void of undulating fog, an ocean upon the clouds. My jaw dropped in shock as the cold sliced through my layers, and I grabbed a rock to catch myself.
I peered over the city below me. Cathedral spires and castle turrets poked out of the random assortment of houses, museums, and national monuments. Edinburgh sprawled like a patchwork quilt of the ancient mixed with the modern. The wind shrieked in my ears, but I imagined what it would be like to stand up here on a calm day and hear the honking cars and the screeching tires of double-decker buses. I spotted the Palace of Holyroodhouse, directly across from Edinburgh Castle. To my left, the Firth of Forth, part of the North Sea, loomed dark and dismal on the horizon, blending into the flat screen of stormy clouds.
I took a breath. I’d earned my right to sit up here, as my ancestors had earned the right to conquer barbaric lands, to sow their own fields, to catch a New York-bound ship to escape the Great Famine. They hadn’t looked back like Jack Murphy or surrendered like Natalie Green. They’d made it, crowns left behind on their own Arthur’s Seats, to step into a new world, an American world. They’d been brave for their children, and their children’s children, for me.
I wasn’t Scottish. I wasn’t technically Irish either. I was American, an ignorant, obnoxious American, and for the first time in my nineteen years of life, I didn’t feel guilty about it. I smiled as the wind railed against me, trying to pitch me into Edinburgh, where the old melded with the new to create a different city.