Keeping in touch with former St Andreans: the Leibster Award

It has been nine months since we graduated from St Andrews (not that I'm counting!) and, as predicted, it has been a bumpy, if very exciting, transition for all of us. Sophie is a fabulous St Andrews friend, who is doing great things this year: her blog, HANS AND PETER, is food for the imagination and never fails to make me giggle. Recently, she nominated some of her blogger friends for a Leibster Award, so here I am. Thank you Sophie, I feel very flattered! These are the rules:

1) Thank the person who nominated you and link to their blog.

2) Answer their 10 questions.

3) Nominate your blogger friends and give them your own 10 questions

And here are the answers to Sophie's questions…!

1. What is your earliest memory?

I think it must be the time I got told off by my mum for doodling on our kitchen wall: I probably was about two or three, and I remember I loved spending time playing under the table in the kitchen. First time parents always learn things the hard way, I guess: don't give crayons to a toddler who likes to play in a house with white walls!

2. If you could live in any period and place in the world, where and when would it be? You’d be the same person and your family, opportunities etc. would be generally the same too.

That would be New York in the 1920s. Dancing the night away to jazz, short haircuts and hanging out with Dorothy Parker? Yes please!

3. What would your last meal be?

The flavour of extra virgin olive oil and grated parmesan cheese, and warm milk mixed with honey, are primordial to me; my last meal would have to include those ingredients. 

4. What's your favourite book?

What a difficult question! There are many books that have left an impression on me. Love in the times of cholera, by Gabriel García Márquez, is definitely one of the best ones I've ever read. I love The Invisible Cities, by Italo Calvino, and If this is a man,  by Primo Levi. Kitchen, by Banana Yoshimoto, and Norwegian Wood, by Haruki Murakami, are also wonderful. The Diary of Anne Frank was a childhood favourite. But who knows, I probably haven't read my favourite book yet!

5. Name eight people, dead or alive, fictional or real, who you’d invite to your ultimate dinner party.

Janis Joplin, Sofia Coppola, Ryszard Kapuściński, Charles Bukowski, Tina Modotti, Zooey Deschanel (yes, guilty), Oscar Wilde and Rosalind from Shakespeare's As You Like It. Planning the seating chart would certainly be a hoot! 

6. What is a law, custom, common assumption or norm you would change: why and how? 

What a way to put us on the spot, Sophie! This is a very difficult question. Something I've been thinking about lately, and discussing with my friends, is that there is no 'silver bullet' that can solve the world's problems; should we tackle environmental issues? Poverty? Ignorance? Abolish capitalism? Are all these not interrelated and mutually constitutive in any case? My opinion is that at the root cause of most of today's problems is corruption, and if there were a way to get rid of it there would be less suffering across nations. But how to do this? It would be wonderful if someone could come up with an answer to this question.

7. Describe your perfect day.

It has to be sunny and warm, warm enough to sit on the grass and for the grass to be dry. There has to be food, friends, good music and no concern for the passing of time.

8. What is something you have learned in the past year? (It can be a skill or specific interesting fact, but general realisations about yourself or the world are more fascinating).

I think something I've been learning all my life, but has become very clear to me since this summer, is that one thing we all seem to really want is to be listened to. It is so surprising that I should have met several people who tell me they like that I listen to them attentively (and in all fairness, I have been very surprised when someone repeats something to me that I had told them in passing or long before--"Wow, you remember me saying that?"). Listening to each other should be the norm, and yet it seems we hardly do it. Maybe that is why it is so common for some people to speak over each other--we are all trying to get heard. If it is such a simple thing to do, and if it makes others happy, why not practice listening to each other as much as we can? 

9. Name three qualities you most admire and three you most despise in a person.

Three qualities I admire: 1) generosity, 2) creativity, 3) enthusiasm. Three qualities I dislike: 1) selfishness, 2) negativity, 3) arrogance. 

10. Which three places do you most want to go in the world?

Bhutan, Japan, Morocco.

11. When do you feel most like yourself?

When I am laughing.

12. Name a skill/ ability you have and wish you didn’t, and one you don’t have and wish you did. And, one you do have and do enjoy or value, just to end things on a positive note! 

This is not an ability, but I definitely wish I was less clumsy and scatterbrained! I wish I could sing. And I am glad I am able to read quickly--this has certainly come in handy while doing a masters!

And here are my questions…

1. What do you remember about your first kiss?

2. What childhood game did you like the most, and do you think kids these days would still play it?

3. Where is your favourite bookstore?

4. What current affairs issue do you think everyone should be familiar with today?

5. How do you distract yourself when you’re travelling on your own?

6. Do you prefer homemade or restaurant food?

7. What is your favourite season?

8. Where is the most beautiful beach you have been to? Which beach destination is still on your ‘to do’ list?

9. Which writer(s) has inspired you the most?
10. Think of a moment in your life in which you felt particularly uncertain. What advice would you give your past self?

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. 

The Smile

This issue has been on my mind since I arrived in St Andrews. At first, it was just that I did not understand it: why did people I had met just a couple of days earlier ignore me when we passed each other on the street? It took me a while, and then I realised people here are just not as good at remembering faces or names. Then I just learnt to deal with it, and come to terms with the fact that people often just 'blank' each other here for no apparent reason.

My never-ending question in relation to this is: what is so wrong with smiling in this town? Not even saying 'hi', but just a smile of recognition. People look so uncomfortable when I do it. A smile doesn't mean much, I think, but blanking a person really does. "What did I do?", one wonders. Smiling is just a friendly way of acknowledging people you kind of know, but with whom you've never really spoken: a way of saying "we know each other", and then moving on. Ironically, smiling can even be a way of keeping this, seemingly, very desired distance. Smiling politely does not mean "let's have a conversation right here, right now", which is what I think most people must think it means. But at least it doesn't leave you feeling like you are some sort of non-person, something the eyes must avoid.

The worse is when the blanking is accompanied by the 'raped walk'. This applies to men only, I think. Have you noticed how some men who think highly of themselves walk with their legs kind of really apart, with a strange little bounce that suggests some kind of pain in the butt area? The blanking in these cases is so much more arrogant, but then again, watching this kind of person walk away, I can never resist but to crack a little smile. 

The Yahs

OK, give me some credit. I have been writing this for a few months now and I haven't touched upon this subject yet. It would have been the self-evident thing to do, really: such an enormously big component of the student community, so much room for parody. Indeed, they already are parodies of themselves...

My early days observing the yahs were both amusing and disturbing. High on the list was a conversation I overheard outside the Union: "Yah mate, our flat is such a mess right now...like, yah, there's champagne all over the ceiling." Most recently I was standing in line at an ATM: two girls, one of them getting money out for the night. Girl 1: "So, how much should I get? £500?" Girl 2: "That's a little too much don't you think?" Girl 1: "You're right. £250?" I really do wonder where they were heading out to...

My best yah moment was, of course, interviewing Matt Lacey for The Saint last year. Such a win. He definitely tops all my yah stories, serious quality. I have, of course, come across my fair share of 'gap yah' stories here too; "Africa girl" stands out for commenting on how, when "she was there [Africa...just, Africa], although people were so poor there were always happy...and they never smacked their children". Read and rejoice. 

A close encounter of the third kind with a yah at the bus stop: I was on my way to horse-back riding, and in my full-on riding outfit. Guy approaches me: "Sorry. I was just wondering, does the University have a riding team?" Me: "Yes, we sure do. But I'm not part of it." Guy: "OK, fair enough. Does the University have a Polo team?" Me: "Yes, yes it does." Guy" "OK, great. And do you like the riding school here?" Me: "Yes, it's really great." Guy: "Thanks!" At this point I thought this had been a pleasant exchange of information. Guy: "Oh, just one more question. Did you bring your own horse?" Me: *repressed horror/laughter* "No. No I didn't..." This has been making me question if I really do like riding, after all.

Most recently, it has been incredibly interesting to see how yahs cope with fourth year. A girl posed the following rhetorical question to me recently: "Reading just takes so long, doesn't it?" I am still wondering: so long in comparison to what?!

My biggest concern is that these are the individuals we're going to be seeing on TV and newspapers not too long from now (Exhibit A: the royal couple). I do worry that this niche group is so emblematic of our University. Alas, I guess we could be infamous for worse things...

Contextually Specific Sex

Lots of things are constantly in our faces in St Andrews. The library. The annoying kids from Madras. The flute player. Our classmates. I think sex ranks quite high up that list: at least, it's not in our faces all the time (that would be bad, actually) but it definitely is a huge conversation topic.

Sex in St Andrews is no different than everywhere else. It is in advertising, it is in the fashion shows, the events... It walks hand in hand down the street, plastered on the faces of all the happy couples. You would think this is a simple matter of life, yet it is all but simple. 

Seen that we talk about it so much, I think clearly this must be a reflection that it is a subject that crosses our mind quite a lot. Yes, even girls. This is a riddle I've been trying to solve: we take it for granted that men think about sex every 15 seconds (or some similarly crazy statistic), but is it true that men think women don't do the same? And, conversely, can it be that men are increasingly content with just having a nice meal out, a goodnight kiss, and nothing else? 

The question rises out of my bafflement at hearing that men feel used by the women of this town. I agree that some of us here come off as slightly aggressive, but hey, walking around in high heels on cobblestones whilst wearing incredibly tight trousers can give a girl a slightly violent air (although I have been told by the wise people at hercampus.com that there are ways to get around this serious issue...). Generalisations aside, I'll give the guys some credit: I am fully aware that not all men are keen on the meaningless sex, and go you for admitting it.

The fact remains, however, that in some form or another we all want it: whether it's a quicky outside the Union (or God forbid, the toilets at the Lizard), a very compliant fuck buddy, or a full-on wedding at St Salvator's chapel in a few years' time, I have a feeling that collectively we all think about sex much more than every 15 seconds. The important thing to remember, however, is that it has to be contextually specific. Be sure to be on the same plane; if both people are in it for just one night, then go for it. If one of you has put on a look of intense post-coital endearment whilst the other is bolting for the door, there is some serious imbalance taking place. Essentially, communication helps. It avoids making one feel used, or makes using each other much simpler. 

Code Names: the sequel

The amazigness of our living room window is not easily conveyed. We see everyone...every-one. I see you, and you can't see me. We know that there's a guy living in front of us who runs barefoot in the mornings, and we know what time the waiters at Mitchell start work in the mornings. Creepy, I agree, and yet, so much fun.

Metaphorically speaking, this is a window facing into a whole new world of code names. Beginning with our neighbours across the street. Notably, "Hair Guy". This man sits in front of his computer in the evenings, presumably to work, and proceeds to groom his hair for hours. With his hands, a comb, a pen...his girlfriend does it for him some times too. He just sits there and pulls at his hair, untangling it, parting it to one side, then the other, then combing it back, then caressing it...we are fully convinced he suffers from some kind of fetish. Also, how soft must his hair be? "And how greasy?", some of our visitors have asked. How has his hair not fallen off after this amount of pulling?

Now, of major interest this year are the Scandinavians of St Andrews. Funnily enough, I hear they have been baptised the "Slytherins of St Andrews"...I don't know how I feel about that code name. But, nevertheless, we get creative with their identities too. Like last year, we had named one of them "Babyface". This summer something happened; maybe his mum gave him an extra Gerber or two, but Babyface has now been promoted to "Manface". In any case, several of the Scandinavian men here seem to have gotten older over the break. Some not for the best (I hate to say, Mr "This-is-what-perfection-looks-like").

Then I discovered "Lady Moves", and boy oh boy do I wish I could move my hips that way. And have such little facial hair as he does. There's always something wrong when a guy looks like he uses more skin products than a girl. Maybe it's just better genes, who knows. For sure though, I will be asking him for some dance lessons before the semester ends (maybe some beauty tips as well).

This year we are (not really) missing our old neighbour, "Naked Girl"; she had a tendency to get changed without closing her bedroom curtains (or the windows). Winter was a bitch back in old Lade Braes, but she had the skin of an elephant and was not affected by the Siberian winds, I guess. "Naked Girl 2" has also been spotted this year, fully clothed for the time being , but I'm sure once the fashion shows start hitting town I'll be seeing more of her ass on posters. 

"Mould Girl the Second" has made an appearance in my Swedish counterpart's life, as a cruel reminder of the life we could have had if we had moved into that house we viewed last year. The library, as usual, has provided some fantastic new additions to our repertoire, mainly "Our Little Non-friend" who, believe it or not, ALWAYS manages to get there before us. And despite the fact it is only the three of us in that area of the library at 8.15 a.m., he still won't even smile 'good morning' to us.

"Mexican Guy", who turned out not to be Mexican, was sighted a few times, although we dislike him for his lack of sass. Added to our favourites list is "Angel (ravish me) Face", who unfortunately does not reside in the same country as us, but is still very worthy of his nickname. 

Best of all this year is finding out one's own code name: I apparently live with "Boots Girl" (and by looking at the shoes in my hallway, I think she kind of deserves that title). We've also had a few reappearances, such as the "Hot/Annoying Nerd"; wasn't he supposed to graduate? "Old Spice Guy" and "Smelly Balls Guy" are, sadly, classics we just can't shake off. Needless to say, however, this year we are seriously making the most of this: wherever we end up next will probably not have this amount of note-worthy people, and we will hopefully not be running into them day in, day out. The silver lining of graduating, huh?

Busker Trauma

I could start this post with a series of very rude and aggressive words, but I will try to contain myself (for the most part, at least). I cannot deny how incredibly amazing our new flat is, especially location-wise. Close to basically everything there is in St Andrews, and giving us perfect bird-eye view of Market Street (best entertainment e-ver!). But nothing this good can come without a price, and we have, unfortunately, learnt the price of living on Market Street.

So, let me say, with all the gentleness and poise which are so natural to me, that those buskers need to HIT THE ROAD. Literally, head-first, if possible. And may their instruments perish in the process too. Why, why, why OH why do we need to suffer this every single week, if not day, that we spend in our living room? 

Let me begin with the infamous flute player, enemy to all Market Street residents. Are there even any words to describe this man? Or someone who understands what compels him to stand there for hours on end playing the same three songs over, and over, and over... I cannot count the times we have heard 'Yesterday', 'Rhythm of My Heart' and 'Memories' this month. If he loves music this much, he seriously needs to go back to a sound-proof room and practice some more, because this really isn't working (despite playing hours on end, heaven knows how he hasn't mastered those songs by now). I fully encourage anyone who is gifted to share that gift with the world, but for crying out loud, expand on the bloody gift!! There are millions of songs he could play. Or, possibly, not...

Then, of course, because we are in Scotland, the bagpipe player. Fortunately he doesn't appear too often and not for too long, but still, give us a break: Saturday mornings are for sleeping, not to ceilidh down to Tesco's. Of course, wherever he is we will hear him (not like the flute player, who fortunately sometimes stands on the corner by Tesco's and is not always audible) because the bagpipe is a very manly instrument, some would argue. 

And let's not forget the accordion player; mind you, the only person who has a degree of musical talent in this list of traumatic characters. I don't know if perhaps I have been given this impression because he tends to appear after the flute player, and believe me, nothing sounds worse than that. My discomfort and anger are often transformed to intrigue when he starts playing 'Cielito Lindo' and I begin to wonder how an accordion could ever play a song that was written by mariachis, but hey, the world is beautiful because it's varied, or so I've been told.

The most recent addition to this lovely crowd of people was the wooden flute player. This is a very geeky and old-school reference, but the sound squealing out of that instrument reminded me of Nintendo 64 and 'Zelda: The Ocarina of Time'. Needless to say, a moment from the 90s that I really did not want to revisit. Worse still, this man thought it would be a fabulous idea to perform the 'Barney' theme song a few times. Video game AND paedophile dinosaur reminiscences, all in one day...what a treat!

But, truth be told, these people do have one very well-developed talent. The moment one sits down to do some actual, serious work, they start playing. The 'self-certificate of absence' page should add a new category to the list of reasons for absence from class: madness due to bad busking. 

Angry Library Guy

We all have different names for him, but we all know who he is. That's what happens with code names in this town; for instance, if someone tells me "Feminist Man" gave them a lecture that day, something clicks in my head and I immediately realise who they are talking about. This happened a few weeks ago, when someone told me he got told off by "The Evil Man" for eating a grape on the top floor of the library. "Oh! You mean 'Angry Library Guy'!", I said. And so the story continues...

I am currently looking for someone who has not been terrorised, told off, shushed or just generally intimidated by Angry Library Guy. Personally, I have been scolded for: sneezing too loudly, chewing gum, taking the lid off my cup of coffee, placing my lunch on the floor next to me, putting my unopened packet of crisps on the desk, and for silently mouthing 'Hi' to a friend as she was passing. His death look is piercing. Considering this man is not particularly tall, I am impressed at how successful he is at making me feel so small.

One time, I observed as he almost banished a girl for discreetly eating a sandwich on the middle floor of the library. OK, I know we're not supposed to do it, but still, she had been there since 8:00 a.m., give-her-a-break! She did not deserve to be yelled at in front of everyone: "Put that away immediately! It's like a bloody pick-nick up here!" Also, I don't know about you, but my stomach always gets really tight if my matric card isn't swiping correctly at the entrance and he's there, fulminating me with his eyes but not opening the sliding doors and waiting for my matric card to work...which obviously fails as my hand begins to shake and sweat and then the card starts slipping away from my fingers...you get the idea. I always hear the soundtrack to 'Jaws' playing in the back of my head, the suspense is unnerving: will he open the doors before he yells at me? Will he yell at me when I least expect it? Where will I hide my snacks today?!

The worst is that when there's people who are actually making noise and being incredibly rude in the silent area, or littering, or spilling stuff and not cleaning up, he is never around. How is this fair, may I ask? I look forward to my last day at the library: I will blast some music, eat a pie and open my coffee cup right in front of him. Such a bad ass move, I know. But hey, at least I'll get the satisfaction of giving him a reason to be angry, and not suffer the consequences of being followed by his grudge on the following semester. I always say, it's the small pleasures of life that keep us going in this town...