Familiarity in a Faraway Town

On every final Thursday in November, an American invasion falls upon the Quaint Scottish town of St Andrews; they come in larger numbers and heavier pockets than normal, and here, that is saying something. This, of course, is the result of Thanksgiving. The holiday has been heavily imposed on the unsuspecting Brits with the influx of students, like me, who love the tradition. The origins of the Thanksgiving dinner involve a bringing together of 90 Wampanoag men and 50 surviving English colonists who had lost many of their friends and family during their first winter in the New Country. It was a moment of relief, diplomacy, and shared food. Deer, wild fowl, corn, beans, squash, and seafood are far from the iconic meal we know today. Though later romanticised, the event sits at a complicated crossroads of cooperation, necessity, and the difficult history that followed for Indigenous peoples. Of course, this marked a happily ever after moment for the relationship between the Natives and the Colonisers. 

Now, Thanksgiving is a free pass for gluttony, indulgence, and mansplaining to your liberal sister about how far New York City has fallen. It is meant for casual drinking, family time, football (American) and an ungodly amount of food smothered in gravy. For me, it has changed quite a bit over the past four years, but the spirit feels much the same. 

I have been lucky enough for my family to come over each of the past four years to spend Thanksgiving with me, often bringing members of my extended family to enjoy the day. They have allowed me to bring friends around for each, and it has been one of my favourite short-lived traditions. 

St Andrews always adds a dash of fancy dress and booze, and for Thanksgiving, that has held true. Living rooms have been subbed out for restaurants, sweat pants for suit pants, and a few casual beers for bottomless wine and liquor. I can’t even imagine the boost it has given to the Rusacks hotel. The 18th, the upstairs restaurant, is packed with families dining and after the meal, everyone races downstairs to the One Under to drink. The bar generally finds itself completely dead on any given night, but it comes alive on Thanksgiving. Afters are planned for when the bar is closed as well. Much of this seems slightly wrong to me, as it is a day meant for family, friends, reflection, and giving thanks, but alas, you will still certainly see me firmly placed in the middle of a dance floor. Maybe it's not too bad. Time with friends and family is plenty, and the reflection is often saved for the next morning. 

Yet beneath the gluttony, the displaced rituals, and mildly embarrassing displays of national pride, there’s something genuine about carving out a moment of familiarity in a place that is far from it. Maybe that’s why the day matters so much here. It becomes less about the historical mythology or the performative excess and more about stitching together a sense of belonging with whoever happens to be around.

And so every year, as the plates are cleared and the pubs spill over, I’m reminded that Thanksgiving in St Andrews is a kind of accidental community. A borrowed holiday, a borrowed town, and yet somehow a tradition that feels entirely our own.

Illustration by Eve Fishman