In my neighborhood the Scots started the party at 10:30am. Every day.

The World Cup is in Boston, and I live in the middle of the city, so I spent two weeks surrounded by Scottish people. Boston has a literal law against happy hour and a nightlife notorious for being lame. So it made sense that the Scots, who go to bars the way we go to Starbucks, drank all the beer in the city. There were beer delivery trucks lining the streets to keep up. The Scotts so clearly love their country and their team and each other, and they were having the time of their lives. I watched them wave their flag and wear their flag. And every day they wore kilts that encoded their Scottish family lineage — except for the drinking kilts, which are the ones it’s okay to spill on. I was in my own city, enjoying their bagpipes, and drinking songs, and endless energy for fun. But I felt like an outsider watching people who knew exactly where they were from, and I don’t feel that myself, even in my own city. In the US you’re expected to say where your family is from. It’s a national…