For the past 10 days I have been travelling up the coast of Brazil, from Sao Paolo to Salvador via Rio de Janeiro. On buses, in shops and caf s, people tend to want to know where you're from. Mention Scotland and most say "ah, whisky", often followed by jocular references to our capacity to consume it in impressive quantities.
Until I came here, I didn't know that Britain is renowned for serial killers, but the Sao Paolo press says it, so it must be true. If clich s stick, the UK tourism industry clearly has its work cut out.
I must admit I brought my own assumptions with me to Brazil.
All the guidebooks warn of the dangers of being held up at gunpoint, pickpocketed and being generally fleeced till your nose bleeds. Locals warn you where not to go, and urge visitors to stash their cash creatively. But so far I have seen no evidence to justify such rampant paranoia.
Indeed, even notoriously scuzzy Copacabana beach in Rio seemed a great deal more benign than Sauchiehall Street on a Saturday night.
Back home, Christmas appears to have very little to do with religion, unless you count the cult of shopping. Here in Salvador there are hand-made nativity scenes in niches in walls, and a monster-sized baby Jesus in a crib the size of a fishing boat is kicking his mechanical legs in a central square, but outside the air-conditioned shopping malls there is very little evidence of the unbridled commercialism that brings out the seething Scrooge in me.
Salvador is Brazil's cultural heart, its beat the sensuous rhythms of the street. Some 70% of the people here are of African origin, the descendants of slaves shipped across the Atlantic in their hordes over the course of centuries to power Portugal's imperial expansion.
BUT far from being the beatendown victims of colonialism, modern-day Bahians are proud people who still celebrate their ancestors' cultures, all mashed up with more recent influences.
African gods are worshipped side-by-side with Catholic saints. Santa, whose inflatable effigy dangles from the occasional balcony, is treated like just another character in the great pantheon of deities.
To the casual observer, at least, there doesn't seem to be the strife associated with sectarianism back home.
Indeed, Salvador is described as one of the world's most impressive melting pots. Sure there is great poverty, but the State of Bahia, I am told, is the most prosperous black economy in the world. The whole country - or at least the small chunk of it I have seen - seems to be all about challenging popular perceptions.
As well as the ramshackle favelas that envelop every town and city, there are architectural gems that take the breath away. In Belo Horizonte, the country's third-largest city and an industrial metropolis par excellence, is a collection of buildings by native modernist architect Oscar Neimeyer that are so beautiful they inspire tears of joy. I feel even more proud of our Scottish parliament building, which in future might stand testament to a nation willing to take creative risks.
There may be an awful lot of coffee in Brazil, but there is also an awful lot of people, and most of them are young. In Scotland, we are grappling with a scary demographic trend that will soon see more people aged over 60 than under 16. Being old at home is perceived as a problem.
Here grannies stroll the streets of Rio in bikini tops and cut-off jeans and old men sport the same skimpy wee Speedos as the fit boys on the beach. The only question I have is: where do they keep their keys?
For all its tribulations - acute extremes of poverty and wealth among them - Brazil exudes a "can do" culture.
Gradually, I have begun to notice my deeply-rooted Scottish reserve drifting away. Why shouldn't a peely-wally 48-year-old wear a bikini on the beach? Who says a middle-aged midriff is unseemly, anyway?
Fuelled by new-found confidence, and a couple of caiprihinias, I found myself in a chic little Ipanema boutique browsing through the skimpy swimwear. An emerald green number caught my eye, and a sylph-like shop assistant soon persuaded me to try it on.
"I can't wear this.
I have a Scottish body," I explained to her afterwards, still desperately trying to wrest the alarming garment off.
The sylph simply cracked a smile and said: "Its no problem. All you need is a Brazilian soul.
"
Needless to say, the Scottish body won the day and the deal was declined. But I now know the present that I most want to bring home.
If Scots could only have a blast of the Brazilian spirit, we would be a far happier and healthier nation.
And I don't mean caiprihinia.
Feliz natal.
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