Is it a hickey or a bruise?

I recently attended one of the debates organised by the SRC; the debate was titled, ‘This house would sell its scandals to The Sun’. As in any other debate, towards its end, the issue of what the definition of ‘scandal’ is was raised, and it is likely that all people present thought about this word in the context of St Andrews. In such a small agglomeration of people, it seems any small piece of gossip we hear gets blown into pretty great proportions—that we St Andreans consider ourselves to be somewhat self-important in no piece of last-minute news. 

Fresher’s Week offers us the perfect atmosphere for scandalous behaviour; the newly arrived youngsters are still unfamiliar with the idea that the shadow of your drunken mistakes will follow you for the rest of your academic career here. It is fun to watch them. Sometimes I feel like I need to take a long shower afterwards, but that is relatively unimportant, given the conversation topics these inexperienced beings provide us with.  

After three years of St Andrews I have learned to: identify someone who is on the verge of chundering in the bushes; what person who I thought was gay hooked up with a girl; nationality according to attire; and event attended on previous night according to level of hungover state.

Ah the Union, with its blue trash container, against which we once saw two people have sex in the open air...how many scandalous moments we have seen there. And that lamp post on Market Street, with which that very drunk girl made out some time ago. We have made up new games as well, like counting how many people step into which puddle of vom. Oh, and the clueless people dropping comments on their obliviousness towards the middle classes...

I really cannot complain, we get our amusement here for free—real quality entertainment. I just wonder where the scandal draws the line, or if that line will ever be reached. I asked myself this as I exited the Fresher's Fayre today, while in the background the legs of a pole dancer from the 'X-statica pole fitness' society contorted, en train of pulling a demonstration for the masses of people present. Let's just hope she didn't pull any muscles, too, while she was at it.

Peter Pan Syndrome

I’m not sure how this is possible, but the summer has already come to an end…and we are going back to St Andrews to start our final year of undergraduate studies. It’s thrilling, yet what is this feeling of dread/anticipation/excitement/happiness/fear/and just pure, nerve-wrecking, soul-shacking sense of time passing by too quickly? Is the horizontal rain hitting me too hard on the head as I step off the airplane at Edinburgh airport, or is everyone else feeling it too? Yep, I thought so.

Of all the St Andrews syndromes I’ve experienced during the past three years, I have to say Peter Pan syndrome is perhaps the one that I suffer from the most. As the time for graduation approaches, an alluring, yet slightly ominous, stretch of water extends before us, an ocean called ‘reality’, in which we have shyly been dipping our toes, but which we are definitely not prepared to dive into. At least, I feel rather unprepared.

It is also the idea that once we’re done here we need to pack up and start all over again somewhere else. To me, that is reasonable grounds to feel slightly apprehensive, especially when I have friends that come from more countries that I can count on both of my hands. And yes, it is exciting, we have all had our fair share of the bubble for four or five years, and we are e-ager to cut the cord. After all, growing up means learning to be by yourself—but that is the beauty of Peter Pan syndrome, you know what you should be doing, as a grown up, but you just let the knowledge be and go back to the comfort of divine immaturity.

Coming to university was, to me, the moment of truth, the threshold one crosses before walking into the realm of adulthood. Why haven’t they taught me how to do this in four years? I feel as unprepared as a deer, drinking from a pond, about to be eaten by an alligator. Not a great feeling, agreed?

The truth of the matter is, nevertheless, that we all do have plans, we just can’t measure how achievable or unachievable these are. It is safe to say that St Andrews has the effect of distorting many of our perceptions: of course we think we can afford the Masters in Oxford, and that London will have all the answers, and that while travelling the world or teaching English in Burundi we will find our true calling. I think I am not alone in feeling fortunate for attending a university that opens so many doors to its students, but I often wonder what the real prospects for the graduating class of 2013 everywhere else is…is it actually safe to assume things will just work out, somehow?

I guess right now it is a bit too early to be worrying about the future: after all we still have a few months ahead of us before taking the big plunge. Not before sprinkling our clothes with some fairy dust, that is…

Mexi-coma

“This is how it is supposed to rain”, I think as I watch the summer storm from the cab window. You might ask yourself why I am glad to see it rain as I enter the depths of Mexico City, after spending seven months in Scotland. The thing is, when it rains in Mexico, it rains; none of that pathetic drizzling falling all day long and moistening everything, including one’s humour. Here, it is dramatic: there’s thunder and lightning, and the clouds make the sky so black it seems like it is night time even if it is early afternoon. Then it passes, and the city’s air becomes pure, and it smells of clean cars and muddy streets. The sun comes out again. This is how it is supposed to rain.

It is strange when I explain my life in Mexico to my fellow St Andreans; those looks of horror when I speak of the danger and the traffic, the restrictions that in Europe aren’t even concepts in people’s heads. When I talk about what it is like for me to go out at night in Mexico, the response I mostly get is, “I couldn’t live like that”. Quite reasonably. 

That’s when I ask myself, how does one explain Mexico in another language? Because, despite it all, when I come back to Mexico I feel relief and, no matter what, I have never felt unwelcome here. If I have lived as an outsider in Mexico all my life, and yet I am able to feel more at home here than in the place where I was born, there must be a reason. A reason for which there are no words. 

Why do I love Mexico so much? Why do I go into a Mexi-coma every time I leave? For one thing, I miss Mexicans’ ingeniousness. In what other country can one find fruit juice sold in plastic bags with a straw, or candles in the shape of Disney characters, or 1.5 lt. glasses with beer containing jelly babies, chilli pepper and Worchester sauce (de-licious, in case you’re wondering)? Where else do soap operas have names such as Abyss of Passion, Fire in the Heavens or The Flames of Love? And why does everyone take things so lightly here? Only here would I let a nickname as ugly as Paca belong to my person—although thanks to that I am always able to laugh at myself and my clumsy existence. That’s a Mexican lesson I take with me everywhere.

It is just that everything is different here, and I don’t know how to put it into words. The blue of the sky is not the same as everywhere else, neither are the clouds which are always far and big, full of air, storing all the sighs of the people they dwell over. You never feel alone here; it is normal to smile at each other in the street, and to say good morning to strangers, even more so to people you encounter on a daily basis (even if you don’t really know them). It is perfectly fine to talk to someone you’ve never met before at a bar—with decent levels of soberness—and to have a conversation with the girl in front you in the bathroom line—again, without the need of being drunk. I love the genuine politeness of people. I like that the vendors in open-air markets greet their regular customers with a handshake…maybe it’s a little awkward when they start calling you ‘princess’, ‘queen’ and ‘blondie’ even if your hair is brown. There’s no scent I can compare to that of tortillas being heated on a grill with some delicious content in them, nor the sweetness of tamarindo or water flavoured with hibiscus flowers. I miss the hills I spent my infancy in, and the city I gave my adolescence to—neither have changed much since I left. I liked when I could measure myself against the maize plants growing in the fields, and that I know the flavour of the fruits that grow on cacti.

What language can convey Mexico’s essence, I ask myself? And am I doing it justice by attempting to describe it here, in the only way I can?

I am fully aware that Mexi-coma is not a St Andrews syndrome—in fact, only about twenty St Andreans or so suffer from it, I think. Yet, if anything, being in St Andrews has made me re-appreciate many things about my home country, and somehow has made me fond of the very things I was escaping from in Mexico. Undoubtedly, wherever I end up next might have a similar effect on my view of St Andrews. For now, I am happy to have realised where it is that I truly feel like I have a home; I am still in the dark about what I will do here if I am able to come back permanently, but at least I know Mexico is waiting for me with open arms.