Cultural Cockups

All this sunshine is making me so confused. I mean, I'm in Scotland, it's March; I'm supposed to be walking around in a jacket, still. On Saturday I went to the dry-cleaners to drop off the winter coat, and was daunted by the three-week wait to get it back, fearing I'd be unprepared if unimaginable sorts of freezing weather falls upon us from one day to the next. But I was wrong. And I feel out of place every morning, as I leave the house in a waterproof jacket, whilst everyone else is walking around in bermudas and sun dresses. This time I can't even say it's the British craze for those couple rays of sunshine they see every other decade: this time, I admit it is actually very warm.

So I got to thinking about all the times I've felt out of place in Scotland because I didn't do the right thing, culturally speaking. On the top of that list is, perhaps, the 'boiling-my-tea-in-the-microwave' incident, which many friends so fondly remember. You see, before coming to University I had never seen a kettle. At home, if we want the occasional cup of tea, we just pop a mug full of water into the microwave and call it a day. So, when I arrived here, and my Mexico-accustomed biological thermostat started to require more than just the occasional cup of tea, the microwave in our flat was rumbling away several times per day. Until one afternoon, when the girl who I would later come to call 'my Weegie doll' walked in on me.

Her: "Fran...what are you doing?"

Me: "I'm making tea"

Her: Look of total and utter bewilderment "But...why don't you use the kettle?"

Me: "The...what now?"

We: are still laughing about this.

During those early days, the cockups just kept coming. I had to learn about the 'no-kissing' policy the hard way too. In Mexico, people just greet each other with a kiss on the cheek, even if they've just met. Here, you reserve this type of exchange for the darkness of a bedroom, at most. So, naturally, when I tried my way of saying hello with a Scottish man, the (disgusted) remark I got was, "Why are you smelling me?!". To this day, how he thought "she's smelling me" over "kiss on the cheek" is beyond me.

Priceless, and perhaps quite naive of me (given the context of the place I live in), was the complete and utter curiosity with which I asked a girl on my corridor, "Who is Jack Wills?", after examining the big letters on the front of her t-shirt, thinking that I was about to discover some unheard of, cool, indie band. That, I did not find out from her.

I guess there's also some of the classic ones; the 'crisps' vs. 'chips' dilemma, the 'french fry' taboo, not to mention 'baked potatoes' or 'potato scones', neither of which I had previously encountered (so much catching up to do in the potato-eating department of my life). Asking for a sausage, expecting a sausage, and getting a squared-shaped, dubious-looking piece of meat instead. The Scottish buzz words, "wee", "chapping", "down-the-road", they all took a while to be incorporated to my already jumbled up English. Apparently, I also have an awkward way of saying 'category' and 'salmon'. I still retain the L in 'salmon' is there for a reason.

But, at least all these things did not take that long to be corrected. Not like some other major cockups. On one occasion, it took me months to realise a mistake I had made. You see, in the summer of 2010, I was working in Stirling, as a camp leader. Almost all the other camp leaders were Scottish or English. On one occasion, we decided to play a game of Never-Have-I-Ever (after a day's work, of course, not with the kids we were taking care of). I was doing quite well, revealing the right amount, not loosing my train of thought when coming up with things I had never done. Then, someone said, "Never-have-I-ever...been in the mile-high club". I was the only one who drank to that. The cheering and patting on the back was almost instantaneous, as were the pleas to "tell the story!". I was so mortified; I immediately thought to myself how rude and immodest I was being, why I hadn't simply sat that one out. Because, you see, in my world, being part of the 'mile-high club' means flying so much during the year that you get one of those special cards to collect your air miles on, and you get to go into the business class lounges at airports. Never did it occur to me that it means having sex on a plane. So the story continues:

Them: "FRAN! Tell us all about it!"
Me: Humbly "Well...it's no big deal...I do fly between Europe and Mexico quite a lot, you see...and, I mean, my whole family is in the mile-high club, even my little brother..."

Them: Petrified looks of absolute discomfort

I never understood that look on this particular occasion, and we just moved on. So I didn't give it much thought. It wasn't until about three months later, when playing another round of this game (incidentally, with my Weegie doll and company) and the same question came up again.

Me: "Hey...what does that actually mean?"

Them: "It means that you've had sex on a plane"

Me: Petrified look of absolute discomfort...and understanding

I'm just scared I'm still walking around life, one cockup after the other. I'll wake up, years from now, and realise, "Oh! That's what I was doing/saying wrong...". I'm still waiting for that to happen to me with regards to Irn Bru, for instance.

Compliments

You know, it's hard to get a compliment in St Andrews. I feel Saharan-desert heat waves if ever I get one; if a professor nods approvingly at one of my comments during a tutorial, it's bliss. Last night I was talking to my best friend in Mexico, and we were discussing growing old and Piaget's theories of childhood development (as one does, "Casual", as she would say). Piaget said that in our early childhood years, we inhabit egocentric realities, in which we see ourselves as the centre of our worlds and all the things happening around us as directly affecting us. Thankfully, growing up means sticking our heads out of our diapers, and this is a very positive thing. But, as my friend and I were saying, one of the harsh realities of growing up is realising that we really are just a school of tiny fish in this big pond called Planet Earth. Things do not happen to us because we are unique and we deserve it; if we triumph, we do so because we've worked our asses off. Being singled out is indeed extraordinary.

Thus, back to my issues with compliments. University is the first place where I've gotten so few. But then again, there are also a couple compliments I wish I had never heard. Outstanding in this category was the compliment a friend of mine got last semester: a van drove past her with two guys in it, they looked at her from the rolled down window and exclaimed, "Damn! Hitting that would be like hitting the jackpot!". Class.

Likewise, last year my friend got asked, outside the Union, "Fancy a shag, hen?". Now, ignoring the content of the question for a moment, if you are going to choose an animal comparison to compliment someone, why, oh why, pick a hen?! Why pick an animal, to begin with?

Then there's the creeps from the Italian Society, who never get enough of complimenting my ass, thinking I don't speak Italian. At least there's some reward involved in this; I get to turn to them, smile, and say, "Ciao, mi chiamo Francesca, come va?". I do enjoy the looks of horror on their faces.

Thankfully, I have awesome friends, who pamper me with bucket-loads of compliments that I probably do not deserve. I am also happy to be able to say that some professors stand out for being aware of how motivational a well-deserved appraisal is to their students.

Today, though, I got called "Lovely Saint girl" when I was distributing outside the Union. Now, I don't know if this happened because the guy was running a campaign and was trying to buy my vote, but being called "lovely" as I strenously clutch copies of The Saint with my inky fingertips, hair flying in all directions, nose dripping and hands quite red, takes me straight back to stage one of childhood development. What do you think, Piaget?

Granny Territory

Have you ever taken the 99A before 10am? I have. It is astounding. Literally, the age gap between me and the rest of the passengers is at least 60 years. I am not exaggerating, and I bet anyone else who has been on that bus that early can corroborate.

Some time ago, Tess noted, "Do you realise how little we see middle-aged people, or children? We basically spend all our time here amongst our generation...or really old people". And it is SO TRUE. Seriously, this past weekend in particular it just dawned on me how many older people live here; this, as I was trying to speed my way behind two very lovely, very charming, very slow, and very old ladies. The weekends, in fact, are Granny territory here. The pink clouds of impossibly sweet perfumes invade the alleys; the offers at Tesco are seized ruthlessly by avid pensioners, gossip is spilled amongst tea cups in the cafes, disapproving looks are cast in the direction of the student population (often hungover and in the way of the grocery-laden Granny-trollies).

Rachel once told me that she can't wait for the day she becomes a Scottish gran; I don't blame her, actually. These women have a blast. They are shameless, they are witty, and they sure as hell have earned their wise way into being the opinionated, ironic and funny individuals that they are. I think they are probably the most real of St Andreans, an everyday reminder that this is where life is heading towards, but that even then we will be making the most of it, one glass of brandy and a friendly chat on the local bus at a time. Where I come from, ageing is not so positive; becoming older means losing your independence, being confined to the living-room and the visits of grandchildren if one is lucky enough. But here, even if they can hardly walk, the Grannies are self-sufficient, they do their shopping and their socialising, and they're happy.

If I could, I would totally aspire to being a Scottish Granny as well.

Little Miss...Raindrop

I am in my English lecture, and all the girls around me are sitting in the exact same position: we are all clutching our stomachs, some of us pulling and readjusting our t-shirts and sweaters, so that the fabric folds itself in front. Even her, I find myself thinking, surprised that she, a real-life, in-the-flesh 'Pandora' should resort to the same belly-hiding techniques that we all do. I look around me and realise none of us are overweight, none of us are unattractive, all of us are intelligent young women (we have to be, T. S. Eliot is no picnic), but still, it seems all of us are thinking, "Watch yourself, make yourself perfect, hide every flaw".

Even the ones that aren't there?

Sometimes I find myself wary of St Andrews, and this is one of these times. I never thought that coming to University would be like coming to a fashion show (literally, as we have five different ones to choose from). I am impressionable, and Eating Disorders Awareness Week might have had its impact on me, driving me to pen these thoughts, yet I cannot help but be shocked at how much appearances count in this town. So many people have called me naive for being horrified at this fact of life. Once, someone told me that she pitied 'ugly people' because it must be so much harder for them to get on in life; it was a proven matter that attractive people are more likely to get jobs, to be thought of as intelligent and 'nice'. When, later, I retold my friends about this fantastic exchange, they said, "Well Fran, it's sort of true..."

Is it, though? Do we realise how much time we waste devoting our thoughts to what we look like and what we should wear? Worse even, as a girl, the self-deprecating musings that pass through my mind on a daily basis. "I wish I had her eyes, I wish I had her breasts, I wish I had legs like hers...". Worse still, the disgusting pep-talks I give myself sometimes; "It could be worse, I could have her hair", or, "I could haver her complexion. I am not too bad after all".

I think that nothing justifies this behaviour, and I am trying, more and more, to make a very conscious and significant effort to stop this kind of thinking once and for all. I have a feeling that all these concentrated aspirations (and frustrations) to fit into God knows what sort of cookie-mould concept of beauty have surfaced on other aspects of our lives here, too. That strange competitive atmosphere in class and in all the societies, for instance, smells very much of this dilemma. So does the excessive drinking, and the social interaction that comes afterwards.

The reality is we have become slaves to appearances, and it doesn't seem like we will ever change this aspect of human nature. It is saddening, also, that we often forget to nourish our internal richness in favour of dedicating so much time to embellishing our immediate and visible selves. And it is scary to realise the extent to which we depend on these constructs to define what we think of others.

A few years back, always in my somewhat naive vein of thinking, I was writing about Marilyn Monroe. I had just seen one of her films, "Let's Make Love", and had been surprised at the sex symbol's utterly normal and realistic (above all, attainable!) appearance. I wrote, "Nowadays I think we all try to be beautiful, period. Beautiful constantly, no matter what we are doing. But maybe we don't realise that we are most attractive when we do certain things, and not all the time, like Marilyn Monroe when she sang. I know that realising that the concept of beauty changes through time is no last minute finding, but maybe realising that we are beautiful when we do what we like best is". I still sort of hang on to that notion; I think that when we find something that we really like doing, and which we are really good at doing, we should hold on to it, because it makes us shine.

And, recently, I suddenly got apprehensive; what if I've forgotten what this thing is for me, because I've just been spending too much time in front of the mirror?