The End

How does one get over St Andrews? Is there a way to go on the rebound from a place? If you have any insight on this matter, please let me know. I am finding it hard to verbalise what these four years of university have meant, and even more so to realise and put into words what this final week has been about.

Let's begin with the graduation ceremony: no one knew what to expect, and it is probably one of the only moments during my time at St Andrews in which I did not have to think at all. Everyone ushered us around inside Younger Hall, dressed us up, seated us, gave us signals. Easy peasy. Sort of. For me, the experience was a fine balance between contradictory emotional and bodily reactions. The incredible need to wee and the thirst; hunger and intestinal blockage; hot flashes and shivers; laughing fits and tears. I managed not to trip on the stage, and that is already something to be very grateful for.

The garden party, with the very thought-through purple pastry: all graduands this year are wearing purple on their lips, did you know? Parents meeting other parents who thank each other for the very deep friendships their sons and daughters have established, telling each other just how important these relationships are to their offspring. The sons and daughters look at each other in a conspiratorial,  "If they only knew," way.

Meeting friends after their ceremonies, ALL those photos, endless meals and alcohol bottles...this week has definitely not been good for anyone's diet or liver. The lack of sleep, the anticipation for parents to leave and gradball to happen...

And then graball, the most awkward way to say goodbye to friends: a massive marquee where, inevitably, we couldn't really find each other, but where we kept bumping into the people you kind of know by sight but have never been introduced to. The free ice cream was a bonus. They could have spared us the ice sculptures.

Saying goodbye was just another strange element of this, already, surreal week. Friends are part of who we've become during our time in St Andrews and splitting up feels a bit like splitting ourselves up, too. Learning how to keep on growing without them will be somewhat like learning how to ride a bike without the little wheels behind. Not knowing when we'll see each other again is nerve wrecking. To preserve the integrity of my keyboard, I will not dwell on this subject further: once the tears begin it's hard to stop them.

A great friend told me today that he never took adults seriously when they said time flies when you're young, but that he now has to give them credit for this platitude after these fours years. What we've accomplished here is no little feat, and the motivation to do well from now on will just keep growing, I think. Knowing parts of me are currently flying off to many different areas of the world also increases my enthusiasm, and so does the prospect of taking little bits of everyone with me. 

I cannot put into a few words what the end means, and what my time here has been like; using a degree name and classification seem to be pretty popular ways of summarising this. For now, I can only say I have come to a deeper understanding of what the words 'gratitude', 'pride' and 'worthiness' mean. So I guess this is what I got taught at University.

Thanks St Andrews, thanks friends. Time flies when you're young, so I'll see you again. Soon.

Coming Back (and Leaving)

I am one of those people that needs to be away from a place in order to appreciate it. That's what happened to me with Mexico, and what is happening to me with St Andrews. Finally, two days before coming back, after almost two months of being away, I began to feel the need to return to the bubble.

Coming back is always a hassle--as is leaving, of course. All those flight connections, buses and trains or taxis. We begin to wonder if it is really worth coming all the way here to study, after all. Then we take that last turn on the motorway...behind a backdrop of grey waves and golf courses, St Andrews greets its returning travellers; once again, a weight lifts from our tired shoulders. This town is a home, after all.

I've been back for just a few hours, and already I have: spoken to a classmate on the train, saw three people I know on the way to my flat, shouted at a friend from my window and had her up for tea, and had another friend walk over from his house to mine in just a few minutes, just to say hi. Being back isn't that weird yet, I'm just settling back into this strange life we have all become accustomed to.

And I realise these are all things I should have never taken for granted, and forgive me if I ever did. Despite its slightly claustrophobic atmosphere, I will miss St Andrews. I think I'm not alone in feeling that, although being students here is probably the least stable aspect of our lives, living in St Andrews is something which provides a lot of stability as well. Being away also meant being far from many things that have become part of me now, and walking into the apartment was like landing back on earth after going to space. The reading packs, the wall of pretentious words, memories from my last few nights before leaving, the cards from friends still sitting on my desk: all small bits and pieces that I will never be able to run away from (and I wouldn't want to, either). 

The reality of our short remaining time here hasn't properly hit me yet: is there something wrong with me, or have I just made peace with the fact it will be a shock and I just need to wait for it? Isn't it true scientists say being born is the biggest shock in a human being's lifetime? I'm starting to think that graduating from St Andrews will be a bit like being born; we have nested in this safe space for four years and now the time has come to emerge. And there will be crying, like the first time we were born. But I have a feeling, this time, it's going to be a bit easier to carry on, away, from yet another bizarre home.

My Invisible Cities

Italo Calvino wrote about "invisible cities"; places that weren't real, but that represented each problem existing in a city as an entirely separate urban scape--vices, passions and thoughts. If I could write in this way about St Andrews I think I might also be able to come up with many invisible cities: of course, aspiring to write like Calvino is rather unrealistic.

But I wish Calvino were still alive and could embark on this project: representing all the eccentricities of St Andrews as different cities. I'd be curious to know what he would name each of them. I imagine there would be a city of confusion, with a very obscure name, where all the inhabitants are really young and look lost all the time--they enjoy being at the BOP and eating kebabs at three in the morning. There might be a city of indecision, where academic supervisors are completely useless and people never know what subject to pick for the next semester. There would be cities of success and failure, and clarity as well, cities of nostalgia and regret. I picture all these places as multicultural and lively, where creativity and diversity thrive, where arrogance always loiters in a corner. 

What would the cities look like? There would definitely be long beaches on all of them--some with stormy seas, others with quiet sunrises, painting the horizon with all different kinds of red and pink colours. People would all be used to running on the sand and finding its grains stuck in between their toes. There would be old castles that only appear after nightfall, and a cemetery where people take books to read and talk very softly. There would be a library, a nice one, made of stone and medieval secrets. 

It would always be windy in some of them, and the curtains inside the houses would dance to the rhythm of the draft coming in through old windows. The sun would also shine in other places, especially in April, when all the students are gone on break. It would rain inexplicably in some cities: thin rain that soaks people to the bone, horizontal rain that people can't defend themselves from, rain that turns streets into a palette of grey watercolours.

Some cities would be built for parties only and, despite the cold, every girl would be elegantly (or nor so elegantly) dressed in colourful ball gowns. Other towns would be built to have conversations in, and the sound of kettles boiling would be the only other murmur perceivable above the voices of the people talking. Vanity would be the capital of one of these metropolises, a place where images of luxury, beauty and happiness would be fabricated and renewed each year. There would be a city for heartbreak, one for art and music, and a city of friendship--that would be my favourite place to be in.

And there would also be a city of learning: but maybe this is what St Andrews is already. 

Coincidences

For a long time, I never questioned whether destiny existed or not: to me it had always been a bit of a given. A few months ago, when I told a friend of mine I thought having met her in St Andrews was destiny, she corrected me; "There's no such thing as destiny. Only coincidences." She said that the notion of destiny is inflexible, as if our whole lives have been predetermined and there's no room for chance and changes of direction. She still called having met each other a "lucky coincidence" and, although lucky, it happened because we were in the right place at the right time, nothing else.

The more I think of this, the more I'm convinced she's right, particularly looking back at my entire St Andrews history. To begin with, I ended up there having chosen it as a safety net and under recommendation of my ex-boyfriend, for whom St Andrews was the dream university--I had never heard of it. In the end, unexpectedly for the both of us, I ended up in Scotland and he in London, after being offered a place at a university that was a dream even bigger than St Andrews.

It seems that after that point it was all a succession of lucky and unlucky coincidences: being put in flat 5 in Donaldson at DRA where I met one of my best friends, changing degrees and finding a vocation, ending some friendships that did not necessarily bring out the best in me. My friend is right: if destiny existed, wouldn't things be much clearer and linear; would there really be so much room for error? Surely, it is because so many things have been determined by coincidence, rather than destiny, that it's been possible to go back and make adjustments. 

And maybe there's a part of me that still clings on to the idea of destiny a little bit; maybe because I don't like to think that everything that will happen to me is, ultimately, up to me (talk about commitment issues, huh?). But knowing that coincidences happen, and make us realise what we thought was "meant-to-be" isn't actually meant to be, is one of the best lessons a friend has taught me. 

Trust Issues

Being in mainland Europe for the past month or so has been, at times, a bit of a traumatic experience. One of the qualities that I think St Andreans love the most about the bubble is how safe we are there--no one steals, there are no criminals lurking in the streets at three in the morning, front doors can remain unlocked. By contrast, my Italian family is paranoid that burglars will break into their homes, or that they will be robbed on the bus in broad daylight. In Mexico, as you can imagine, the paranoia is also there (and, granted, slightly more justified). 

All my life I've been aware that there are countless reasons to be scared and always on the watch. Coming to St Andrews provided sweet release from this constant state of panic, and I could finally surrender to the natural conclusion that there's more good than bad people in the world. Unfortunately, of late, stealing is not so much a matter of being good or bad but is much more related to need. It is perhaps one of the most tragic consequences of the economic crisis that not only do people distrust their politicians and bankers, they also don't trust the people they encounter on a daily basis. 

So leaving St Andrews will definitely cause me to have some trust issues: not the kind in which I don't trust people, rather the kind in which I trust everyone. This isn't necessarily a negative thing--isn't it good to give people the benefit of the doubt?--but I think it might all come down to the level of trust issues new people around me will have. 

Technofobia

Am I about to be hypocritical? Perhaps. I am, after all, a dedicated smartphone user, an avid Skyper, a fellow Facebook addict. And as the time for graduation draws nearer, these are the comforting qualities that I am happy to share with my friends: it just means we can be in touch with each other in ways that people 20 years ago couldn't have dreamed of.

Yet...despite the wonder that technology provokes in me, I cannot help but feel an increasing apprehension for the role it has in our life today. Just the marketing that smartphones and tablets have seems, to me, outrageous. Has everyone seen the ad with the father and son on a camping trip? The father reads Winnie The Pooh to his kid off the tablet (don't even get me started on Kindles and e-books), they look at the constellations through the tablet, the compass is on the device, they light a fake fire on the screen...and I'm thinking, ok, if I were in the middle of the woods I probably would find all these things quite practical. Then the commercial ends and you realise the tent is set up in their backyard. Yay dad, thanks for this amazing adventure--I think we were even able to use the wifi from home to play out here! And have you seen the Samsung Galaxy ads? The one with the on-screen proposal? I'm not saying we should be expecting a candle-lit dinner proposal in this day and age, but I think we can all agree some things are better done in person. And the one featuring our very own town of St Andrews, with the mum getting all the photo updates from his son's travels? What will they talk about once the son gets home if the mum has already seen everything while he was gone?!

You see where I'm going with this: I think technology is not only making us lazy but it also is, paradoxically, belittling social interaction. It seems that by being in touch all the time via all these means, when we actually see each other in person it's just awkward. We already know everything about each other. Don't deny it, we've all been there: you're finally meeting up with that special someone you just met. You ask them what they did that week, but it's a pointless question: the Facebook stalker in you already knows where they were, who with and when that week. But we need to converse, right? Or do we? Families at restaurants don't seem to anymore. I am a little sad when I see parents handing an iPhone or iPad to a child who can barely hold its head up. An Italian newspaper reported that they are now making potty trainers with iPad holders attached to them. Call me crazy, but I would argue it is more important to learn how to deal with your own fecal matter before learning how to use an iPad. 

And then, what if there's a power cut? For real, this isn't just my Mexican paranoia. If your entire house depends on electricity to work, you're screwed. You can't cook if you have one of those fancy induction hobs, you can't even make yourself a coffee if on top of that you have an electric coffee machine. Least of all tea, if you're used to the kettle (or the microwave, as the first-year me used to be).

As much as I love that I am able to instantaneously know everything about my friends, and I can let them know everything about me, using technology, I worry that children today won't grow up learning how to write letters to each other and, by extension, be able to express themselves using full sentences and proper characters. I'm scared that bookcases will become obsolete and that no one will buy paper newspapers anymore. Above all, I'm scared we will all become accustomed to the growing lack of mystery there now is when we meet a new person--all we have to do is look up their name on Facebook or Google. Will we actually become less mysterious as we create and manage our online identities, which need to fit concisely on wall posts, albums or 140 characters?

Call me antiquated, but next year I am going to send letters and postcards to everyone, and I expect to get some too. Or at least an e-mail every now and then--and please don't ask me questions you already know the answer to.

The Birds

I never thought I would do this but, alas, here it is: my petition to Fife Council. After a semester's worth of waking up in streets that look like a warzone, this morning I had it. 

"Piles of vom?" you might be asking yourself. Despite that recent episode of chunder sliding off the walls of H&M for a couple of (daytime) hours, the answer is no, the piles of vom are not the problem here. Nor the nauseating smell of fish&chips permanently flowing in the morning air, not the buskers. Although that might be my next petition to Fife Council: this week, we've had a serious development in the busker saga. The past week, we've had it all: the ever so repetitive flute player, the accordion player and the guitar player. AND the newly arrived junior bag piper (who really, really can't play) and the ukulele band, who sing The Lumineers' ''Ho Hey'' ad infinitum. Needless to say, they have now also ruined this song for me.

But no, my concern here is with the birds. I have written about the worrisome seagulls of our town on a previous occasion and, let me tell you, they have gotten worse, if anything. The other morning I witnessed the slaughtering of a crab by one of the seagulls, and my first instinct was to board my windows. They've gotten bigger too: maybe they still haven't lost their winter fluff, but those toddler-sized, feathery beings are preparing for something bigger than the ice age. They'll be laughing at us when we perish during the catastrophe.

So, they're getting meaner, and they're getting more populous. But they are not alone. The crows are following suit. These are animals big enough to inspire Poe to write 'The Raven, part the second.' They are even faster than the seagulls, so their sporadic aggressive spasms are always, infallibly, resulting in a minor heart attack to those passing by them. Why are they so angry? you might ask yourself.

Well, clearly, because we pack our garbage. How much easier would it be if we just let it out in the street for them to have? This would hardly be a bad decision: they will get to it one way or another. At least by leaving it on the side walk we spare ourselves the trash bag confetti flying around in our streets. My question here is, Fife Council, have you thought about making your bin bags (and bins) bird proof? 

The Italian (Nut) Job

Oh Italy. Every time I go back to you, you surprise me further. To begin with, how do you manage to keep a population of more than sixty million people, who presently have no government, so calm? How do you even function, I wonder? I think, like the majority of these people, I'd rather not know the answer to that question, and ta-da, it's magic. The country keeps functioning: as long as we have our good food and our good wine, the rest will solve itself.

But (bringing it down a notch or two...) what is up with Italian eyebrows lately? First, the ongoing fashion of male eyebrow waxing. I am all in favour of alternative masculinities, but those eyebrows look seriously sketchy. Unless you have a caterpillar crawling on your forehead, leave those eyebrows alone! And now, women are following suit: shaving eyebrows off and painting them on. I think this fashion is even dying out in Mexico, come on ragazze, have we really run out of ideas already? Maybe this is a sign that we've done enough to our faces already...

On that note, I've discovered what Italian women seem to fear the most (not Silvio Berlusconi, you might be surprised to know). Cellulite. Italy will sell you anything to fight it: gels, creams, pills, raw vegetables, mud masks, massage tools... When did cellulite become such a big deal? Seriously, when (and if) we get rid of it, do we become happier, more intelligent, generally better people? Thighs and butts are two parts of our bodies that aren't that exposed: get a grip! Do you realise how much time and money one can end up spending on this problem? I'd rather have cellulite than waste my life rubbing some smelly unguent on myself for hours, locked in my bathroom.

I guess that's what makes me, and most Italians, crazy: the constant need to fare bella figura, to be impeccable and have a perfect image. Sure, we are descendants of beautiful figures like Michelangelo's David, but alas we are not made of marble. Let's take a chill pill and realise that if we are to get through the country's crisis we need to fight against more than just cellulite and hairy eyebrows. Perhaps it's this obsession that got us into the mess to begin with...

Bed Bugs

Working at a B&B has had somewhat of an impact on me. For instance, I now know that pillows are not that white underneath the pillow cases and that not all towels get replaced after a guest leaves if they look unused. Call me a clean freak, but I found this a little worrying at first. 

This changed after a conversation with a couple of my friends. One of them assured me beds are probably the dirtiest furniture in our homes. After enjoying a never-ending scene of me freaking out about all the hair that is probably hidden between my sheets and mattress cover, my friend added an extra element of horror: bed bugs.

Apparently bed bugs are a common phenomenon of all beds. Suddenly, yellow stains on duvets seemed like a joke compared to a host of crawling creatures within my mattress. My Swedish counterpart felt the need to add, "Well, I'm sure the hostel we slept in in Paris had them." Why?? How many different types of bed bugs have I slept on? And, most importantly, where on me have they crawled?!

In an optimistic end to our conversation, however, my friend brought to my attention that bed bugs are not that bad. At least I can now legitimately claim that I am never alone in bed.

The Legend

You know how it is in St Andrews: more often than not, if you describe someone to someone else, they will know who that person is, even if they only know them by sight. That's how it usually goes in my conversations, but some weeks ago, as I described someone to a person I had just met, they had a, "Oh, that's you?!" moment...which had never happened to me before.

The person I was talking to was the new president of the Italian Society. I had spoken to him a few other times but, it being Sangria Night and all, we spoke for a longer time on this occasion. At one point I told him I was glad he was the new president of the Society, for I found his predecessor and entourage slightly creepy (creepy Italian leaders? Where have I heard of this before...?). When he asked me why I thought so, I said it was because every time the previous president saw me, he managed to forget I spoke Italian, and proceeded to loudly comment on my ass. Now, it is no news that I suffer from 'big butt syndrome' (I always have) but sincerely I like to think there's more to me that just an ass, and if it were really that memorable, these individuals would at least remember they've seen and commented on it before. But no, no. So my reaction to those comments usually was to start speaking in Italian to them, and watch their faces as realisation turned into mortification (oh, the joy!). 

As I kept going on with my convoluted anecdote, doubtlessly fuelled and made more complicated by the cheap Sangria, he opens his eyes with surprise and says, "That's you?! You're a legend! You really traumatised those guys, you know?"

A sense of victory came upon me. Who knows what sort of reputation I've gained with this, but hopefully these men will think twice before screaming, "Look at that ass!", from one end of a table to the other.

Falling in Love Again

There's different opinions about the new semester: some really enjoyed their first study-free Christmas, some wished for exams after Christmas to be spared from the extreme stress that was last semester. I count myself amongst the former, but there's a price to be paid for everything, isn't there?

Can it be that love really does last only for three years? I ask myself this as I sulkily pulled my suitcase up the stairs to our flat after the holidays, the memory of the Mexican sun still shining too brightly in my head to make this an easy return. Sulkily, I've been making my way around the same old (three) streets, and have only rejoiced in finding my amazing friends waiting for me with open arms. As much as it pains me to think I'll be leaving those arms soon, the idea that, in the near future, I will not have to face the same cobblestone alleys everyday brings me a lot of comfort.

Yet, is it that I just need to fall in love with St Andrews again? Weather allowing, I'll just have to venture out for a long walk on West Sands, sit on the pier at sunrise and breathe the earthy smells of Lade Braes. Or maybe I've really just had enough; maybe the time has come to start sealing my usual cardboard boxes, full of memories, and start forcing everyone into planning weekly Skype sessions (group sessions, if need be) to fight the separation anxiety and withdrawal symptoms I'll inevitably experience after leaving. 

And yet, perhaps my disenchantment is associated to fulfilment. Like all good relationships, St Andrews and I have brought out the best in each other, and now I am ready to move on to greater things...or maybe new disappointments that will make me appreciate St Andrews even further. For the time being, I'm looking for new ways to spice this relationship up a little, find that spark we had the first few years. I think, however, it may take a little more than sexy lingerie and a candle-lit dinner...

Lesson 1 in YOU101

Prepare for a cheesy one. I can't help myself, my days have taken an unexpected and happy turn, for I now know the answer to: "So...what are you doing after graduation?"

All around me, people seem to be getting closer and closer to their answer to this. My Swedish Counterpart has suggested this is the first lesson one learns in 'YOU101: Getting life started, and making it awesome'. I'm fully aware the answer hasn't come to everyone yet, and forgive me if this is incredibly annoying to those who haven't gotten here yet. But 'yet' is the operative word here, as it suggests that there will be a time in which we will all get there ("And indeed there will be time...And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And a hundred visions and revisions..."). 

Truth be told, despite all of my complaining, St Andrews seems to put us rather close to Lesson 1. Is it because time here is ending that I suddenly realise and appreciate how fortunate it is to have landed here? Is it just the euphoria of working so hard towards something and actually achieving it? I've never run a marathon before, but right now it feels like I've crossed an important finish line: maybe one day I'll try running one to see if it feels the same.

What I want to say is that we are all running in one direction, which will split us into a kaleidoscope of different paths once we graduate, all of them equally interesting and exciting. A song from Italian rapper Jovanotti resonates in my head these past few days; we are like the sun shining at midday, not even a shadow around us...

How Sex&Gender has screwed my mind

Oh, the complaining I'm about to do. I've been holding it in since Mexico: this truly annoying song just hit the charts over there and man, do they love it. I believe we are all, unfortunately, familiar with 'Whistle'? Let me start by saying a thing or two about this song. To begin with, I feel a bit sad for the man singing it: if he's referring to his penis as a whistle, I'm thinking he's got an issue or two with his self-esteem. Just saying. Secondly, I feel doubly sad for him if he's got a girlfriend so retarded he's got to explain how to 'blow  his whistle' as if he was teaching her the ABCs. Sure, I'm not saying every woman (or man, for that matter) should be expected to know immediately how it's done, but a handful of neurones are enough to know where the starting point is at. 'Getting real close' is definitely top of the list. I'd be careful on repeating the 'put your lips together' bit; she might just seal them closed and fail to understand the following steps. 

Then, James Bond. I've been holding that in for even longer, because everyone seemed to love it so much: didn't want to immediately become the party pooper on call. And, admitting this movie displays several quality action scenes, I have a real problem with the role of women in it. Yes, yes, Bond is a very damaged and dark man (not that Daniel Craig can truly portray the inner depths of his character, mind you) and his behaviour is a reflection of that fact--a man who is hurt and forever unable to express himself again? I hadn't heard of that before... In any case, my question remains: when was it ever stipulated he would sleep with those women? Come on, the first woman just gets fucked. That's her role in the entire movie. She doesn't even have a line...did she even sigh? And then he just leaves her in bed and that's that. Not cool. In the second instance, again, when was it stipulated that it was ok for him to walk into that shower and screw the second woman? Excuse me, I don't know about you, but if a man unexpectedly walks into the shower whilst I'm in it, I will not spread my legs readily, I will hit him in the crotch with a loofa, repeatedly (and possibly try to asphyxiate him with my shower cap). I'm just saying. Also, M, really? You were head of Foreign Intelligence and yet you manage to die in Bond's arms? Poor effort M, poor effort. But of course, the only truly unsettling threat Bond faces in this movie is that of gay sex, as hinted by the one great performer in the movie, Javier Bardem. Bond gets shot off a bridge and his hair barely gets muffled. He pulls out bullets from his shoulder as if he were picking lint out of his socks. But man on man action makes him lift an eyebrow, a genuine look of sheer terror crossing his eyes? How progressive...

And then, the worst all this Sex&Gender analysis has done to my world: disappointment at Ellen DeGeneres, the last woman on earth I though would let me down. Perhaps it's a cultural thing, but still. The other day I watched a video where she features the heart wrenching story of a single mum, supporting four kids after recently having lost her job. This woman is black. Upon calling her on stage, Ellen hands her a pile of money: $5,000. And there I began to think: this is a little icky. The white woman has the power here. What is this trying to tell me? As if these doubts weren't already uncomfortable enough, out comes a second woman, also white, introduced as the 'guardian angel' of the single mum. Again, the little Sex&Gender alarm in the back of my head started ringing, making me read waaay too much into these scenes. Which is probably what I'm doing, to be honest. Still, are there no deprived, white single mothers in the US that could have been featured in the show? Just putting it out there and encouraging further discussion. I have to, after all, resolve this conundrum. 

Of course, there are some lamentable trends which just hand me the stuff to bitch about on a silver platter. I refer here, of course, to Fifty Shades of Grey. The only word I can find for this book is 'insulting'. Perhaps I am too quick in saying this since I've only read some passages, as suggested by my Swedish counterpart, but I am pretty certain this book is absolute garbage. Misleading, insulting garbage. As I was sitting there half laughing half despairing over its contents, I really started to wonder if the most appropriate response to it I could have is to rant about it in academic lingo. It is highly possible it would be more productive to talk to the millions of women who read and enjoy this book, just to understand at what stage of the evolutionary chain we've gotten to here. I fear, after reading the 'contract' within which the protagonist agrees to be 'the property of Mr Grey', that we've only successfully been able to remove negotiators in the process of making women goods to be exchanged.