Kilts, streakers, and three-foot-tall actors..

After our whirlwind tour of Europe this Christmas, I had almost resigned myself to the cold, hard truth about culture: it simply doesn't exist.

Most of it, I came to realize, is merely mass-produced for the tourism industry.

It only took four weeks of hearing CNN cover 'Europe's Identity Crisis' and a few dizzying trips around gift shops to realize it, as well. The only people in Germany that drink from huge steins are the tourists in Hofbrau House. The only people who wear funny wooden shoes and feathered-caps in the Netherlands want your spare euro cents. And the only 'authentic' Swiss fondue is ordered off the special 'Tourist Menu.'

So, with a heavy heart, Jon and I criss-crossed Europe and I came to accept the fact that the images I had once created in my mind - of pigtailed Dutch girls leaning over to kiss their leiderhosen-wearing mates, of German men slamming down frothy mugs of ale, of French lovers holding poetry in matching berets - were really nothing more than the whims of Disney imagineers in Epcot's 'World Showcase.'

Then, I went to Scotland.

And I came face to face with one aspect of romantic Scottish culture that is still very much alive: the kilt, in all its bare-legged, tartan-covered glory.

Now a cynic of all things that once appeared in 'It's a Small World,' I chalked up my first few kilt sightings to the crazy antics of the tourism industry. Surely, I reckoned, those two blokes sipping pints and tapping their kilt-covered knees to Scottish music in the pub were merely hired by the hostel next door. Naturally all those signs proclaiming, 'Kilt Hire,' were merely for show for us tourists.

Yet, the kilt continued to appear. In shop windows (for a jaw-dropping £150 a skirt), on the hips of posh men outside a wedding reception, and even in the line at Edinburgh Castle. The kilt, we discovered, is alive, well, and flourishing in Scottish culture.

And I must say, I enjoyed it.

Scotland, as whole, seemed eerily familiar and yet surprisingly unique on our trip. We spent five days driving - on the left side of - Scotland's roads and hitting the touristy highpoints. We started our adventure searching for signs of the Holy Grail at Roslyn Chapel (of Da Vinci Code fame) and only stumbled upon a stockpile of literature, games, and guide books for Dan Brown's book in the gift shop. (Who cares if the 'Rose Line' is a farce? It sells!) Then we hit up St. Andrews for a stroll down the Old Course - where Jon promptly shushed me everytime I tried to talk - and a tour of the British Golf Musuem. I sighed loudly for much of the day and tried to act the part of the sacrificing girlfriend (Let's be honest.. would I ever choose to go to St. Andrews on my own? Would I need to take 50 pictures of the road bunker on hole #17?) but to be honest, I found St. Andrews to be charming. All gray-stoneworked buildings and narrow, cobble-stone streets. It didn't take long before I started plotting a Ph.D. in Ulster-Scot studies...

From St. Andrews we headed north to Loch Ness, stopping for awhile in Pitlochery, a tiny town near Stirling. I read in a hostel brochure some mention of a waterfall walk and a free whiskey distillery so we decided to test it out, stumbling upon one of Scotland's hidden gems in the process. The whiskey tour was indeed free, complete with a free 'dram' of Edradour 15-year whiskey, and was led by a tiny, blue-haired lady in blue Wellie boots and her own Highlander tartan skirt. She took us through the distilling process at Scotland's smallest working distillery, stopping to poke her finger in the sugared water and paste herself, and then stood sweetly by as we perused the gift shop. Afterward, we made our way down to the 60-foot waterfall, gorgeous but out of tour thanks to some wooden contraption built by the local Rotary club.

At the end of the day, we descended upon Uruquart Castle, a bundle of ruins overlooking Loch Ness. The castle itself was fun enough to explore but the highlight was an 8-minute film full of kilt-wearing warriors and Jaccobite soldiers. Apparently the castle was destroyed when the Jacobbite armies failed to seize it in the 1600s. Even though the Williamite forces won, they blew the castle anyway and reduced it to rubble. Loch Ness, as a whole, didn't look like the eerie, monster infested pond I expected. To start -- it's huge, much bigger than the lakes in North Carolina. And it's surrounded by hills and roads and a thin line of trees, not the spooky, fog-covered forests one might expect. Sadly, no monster sightings, outside of the carved reproductions outside the 'Nessie 2000' exhibit nearby. Though the lake was kept blissfully free of the tourist hype, a nearby town had enough of it to make up for it -- Nessie stuffed animals, creature droppings, nets for Nessie catching, videos, interactive exhibits, Nessie T-Shirts, Loch-Ness movies, the whole bit.

Leaving Nessie behind, we focused on another bit of Scottish pop culture: Braveheart. A movie which, I am embarressed to say, I saw for the first time in its entirety last week. Now devoted William Wallace fans, Jon and I headed to Stirling Castle to walk the bridge Wallace once used to defeat the English and to climb all 2-million steps of the William Wallace memorial. Though tour guides along the way seemed quite miffed that their guests only knew of Wallace from Mel Gibson, the memorial didn't seem too upset. Right in front was a stone sculpture of Wallace -- looking exactly as Mel Gibson did in Braveheart! Completely aware we were probably entering a tourist trap, we climbed the hill to the memorial, posed for pictures beside Wallace's sword, and then took in a panoramic view of Stirling from atop.

The final day brought us back to Edinburgh for a tour of the old city. Since we got in Saturday night, we walked around town for a bit (mistakingly thinking the main shopping street was the famed 'royal mile') and then decided to find a good, Scottish pint. As we followed swarms of people across town, we discovered we'd been walking away from the happening night spots and right into territory for 'ghost tours' of Edinburgh. With a few pounds to spare and the entire night ahead of us, we signed up for a 'Ghosts and Ghouls' tour of the old city.

Now, perhaps I expect too much. Perhaps I thought that in 1.5 hours and with a herd of 25 others around me, I would get petrified by ghastly tales. Perhaps I expected someone a bit more, eh, scary.

Either way, I was sorely disappointed.

Our cloak-covered guide turned out to be a rather plump, baby-faced Scotsman with floppy-hair and a breaking voice. His tool for fright? Just talk real low for a few minutes and then YELL AT THEM LIKE THIS! Sadly, we wandered the streets less frightened by our guide than amused, although it was a nice introduction to the city and medieval life. The highlight, however, had to have been the streaker than ran past at St. Giles cathedral.

At the end of the tour, we went into Edinburgh's vaults, a series of underground rooms and chambers once used as an underground market but later abandoned to the poor and unsavory. Just as the guide began talking, the lights switched off. At first I thought it had to be a hoax, a clever trick to get the tourists. But then, as we wandered on and the lights still didn't come on, I have to admit that I began to wonder if it really was, indeed, the work of the 'watcher' whom our guide kept referencing. According to Jon, I looked absolutely terrified at some points. (I wouldn't go that far.) Yet, we left £13 pounds poorer and without orb sighting or feeling the cool, eerie breath of some nearby ghost. The next day we dedicated to touring the actual royal mile, spending hours at Edinburgh castle, peeking inside St. Giles Cathedral, and hitting up Happy Hour in an authentic-eque pub.

In the end, I found Scotland absolutely charming, filled with cobblestoned streets, stonework buildings, and small, quaint villages. The Highlands, looming over us as drove to the north, were amazing, the glens picturesque, and the entire landscape refreshingly desolate. It would not be hard to imagine where the Highland clans earned their individuality and reputation.

And, perhaps, I'll temporarily retract my thesis on Europe's lack of culture... Scotland, at least, is full of it.