Clueless in St Andrews

Lately I have been thinking of writing a post about ‘Overheard in St Andrews’, but then I saw someone on The Saint beat me to it the other day. Then I started wondering whether or not this group actually reflects any particular reality about people here. After all, everyone says stupid things. I say some pretty ridiculous things (“I don’t know where I could fit a boyfriend…”). So even if usually the things posted on ‘Overheard’ reflect the St Andrean stereotype of the rich/clueless/generally uncultured brat, there is no reason to conclude that it is a niche problem that St Andrews has (sort of, anyways): unfortunately, it might be a worldwide phenomenon. 

So instead, I began to think that actually it is ‘Lost&Found in St Andrews’ or the ‘Flea Market’ that reveal much more about our weird social world, maybe more so than ‘Overheard’. I mean, who sells a projector worth £1000? That’s more than my monthly rent and food expenses. Just sayin’. When would anyone ever use it? And what about the tea maker with the “four temperature settings and keep warm function”, which has “a self-lowering and raising tea infuser for optimal brewing strength”? My responses to that are, a) that person should just quit university and get a career in marketing; b) buying something like that in the first place shows evidence of ‘tea fetish’ and, believe me, I know how to recognise it, I live with someone who owns 12 different kinds of leaf tea…and even she thought the Star Trek tea maker was a little too much. Above all, the thing that kills me about reading those posts is that most people describe these luxurious items as “barely used” or “practically new”. They might as well write, “Took it out of the box, didn’t like it, couldn’t return it, cost lots of money, probably need to think about my consumer choices a little more carefully…want to buy it?” 

And then, ‘Lost&Found’. Sadly, I think a lot of the hilarious and random crap that gets lost doesn’t get posted on the page, so this is a call for improvement people: if you found a pair of fluffy handcuffs inside the kitchen drawer at DRA or a mankini in the laundry room, by all means let us know. The things that do make it on the page are usually ID cards (people like to specify what name is on their card, even if it’s the exact same name they have on Facebook), many, many leather and Barbour jackets and, of course, Blackberries and iPhones (you know, why take care of them when Apple releases a new version every month anyways?). Apparently it has now become common to spot people around town wearing items of clothing that one has lost. Now, that just might be reflecting the hugest irony this town could possibly have to offer (rich kids stealing each other’s clothes) or showing how many drunken one-night-stands have ended up with the guy giving the girl his woolly cardigan as a token of his love and then forgetting about it.

What am I trying to get at? Yes, my usual rant against consumerism and materialism and the little appreciation people here have for the things they own. But is this not a sign of clueless behaviour? Again, possibly not a phenomenon restricted to the realm St Andrews, but I feel like it’s very much in one’s face in this town.

On a positive note, at least we live in a place where things (besides woollens and hoodies) don’t really get stolen. So we can rely on our good old community of students to find our way back to what we’ve lost (with the possible exception of one’s dignity), and the fact that the police are helpful in finding missing designer handbags, due to the little crime watch they’re actually required to do. Just be careful about lost passports: I hear those get shredded at the police station.

St Andrews Pain

I’m having lunch with my two friends: F1 (appropriate new code-name, yes?) and my Swedish counterpart are discussing cabin fever. F1 says, “I have the St Andrews Pain”. “What, you’re already wanting to leave town for a while?”, we enquire. “No, not really. It’s more like an urge to hide under the blankets and play Xbox for 24 hours straight”. Word.

That we all get a little restless after long confinements to the bubble is no secret. It’s worrying that we’re now starting to get claustrophobic after being here for less than one month, especially in the light of the fact we no longer have reading week, but it is a common distress nonetheless. I am slightly envious of:

-Scottish students. You can go home whenever you feel like it.
-JSAs/JYAs: you don’t really study and tour around Europe during the entire semester AND still get credits.
-People with private jets: makes getting to your yacht in Southern France so much easier. You take ‘weekend getaway’ to a whole new dimension.
-Londoners: self-explanatory.

So, I have to say I agree with F1, although I would probably replace Xbox with cheesy TV or pleasure reading, possibly both. In fact, I have decided that I shall celebrate handing in my last essay with a weekend trip to Amsterdam—only in St Andrews, I agree. Let me tell you, though, that the purpose of my travels is entirely educational; after all, the University of Amsterdam is one of my options for graduate study. You can’t presume I won’t check it out before applying, can you?

Perhaps the biggest pain about St Andrews Pain is what was pointed out by my academic husband just a week ago: the minute you leave you realise that there really isn’t much to do here. I complain that I never have enough time to do everything I want in a day, and believe me, it’s for that very reason. We burden our weekly planners, commitment after commitment, to ease the Pain, I think. And once one gets to fourth year and starts seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, there’s just no more use in denying it: the imminent end begins to look completely glorious.

 

Masters (&Commanders?)

The time has come. This is all I think of, lately. The time has come to go through university applications. Again. Applying for graduate courses just proves my whole argument about Peter Pan syndrome, doesn’t it? Why illude ourselves that we have finally reached adulthood, when the end of our university careers just brings back memories of “shit-what-have-I-been-doing-these-last-four-years-at-high-school?!”

 

I can only hope that we are all feeling the same way: absolutely thrown into the deep, and with the sudden realisation that our degrees do not fit in the cookie-mould job descriptions that the careers centre proudly shells out every day. I definitely cannot become a consultant at KPMG or a financial expert for some bank. Partly because of my degree, as well as my inability to do maths even if my life depended on it. Mostly because I wouldn’t last a day before losing absolutely all hope about humanity. In high-school, I toyed with the idea of becoming a poet/novelist and my friends made fun of me for it: my books would end up as the unwanted prize you find in cereal boxes (never Kellogg’s, but definitely Dorset Cereals) or as my fuel to survive the winter, rather than bestsellers. Needless to say, both those scenarios appeal to me more than becoming a blood-sucking, corporate, tailleur-wearing robot.

 

I know what I don’t want to do, and despite this abominable cliché, the question still remains: what will I do? So many options, and one more idealistic (and improbable) than the other. It possibly doesn’t help that I have friends that are undecided between a Masters or going to a Buddhist retreat for a year or teach English in Japan/Madagascar/Argentina or rule the planet. Doesn’t help either that I live with a future Oxbridge PhD candidate, and that I don’t have the most remote idea where I want to set up camp (some days, Barcelona, other days, middle-fuck-nowhere Mexico, or Edinburgh, or New York, or…). The dilemmas remain, and keep piling up.

 

Of course, I have indeed (somewhat) narrowed it down, and I am going through with my plan. Now, it’s just about the pain of waiting, all over again. Not only for acceptance letters, but for my grades, again. You know what module they should offer all fourth years? YOU101: Getting life started, and making it awesome.

Dressing Accordingly

That the way one dresses in St Andrews is a prominent worry of everyday life is almost too obvious a fact to be writing about it. One grows up in the real world and gets accustomed to going to the supermarket wearing pyjamas and dirty sneakers. And just when one starts to think this is normal behaviour worldwide, they step out onto Market Street wearing just a hoodie and jeans, and instantly the regret hits them in the face with the wind power of Hurricane Bawbag. ‘They’, of course, meaning me.

 

I often complain about how difficult it is to ‘read’ people in St Andrews, and lately I have started to come to the conclusion that it all boils down to this insane obsession we have with looking impeccable constantly. The clothes we wear here are thought-through and renovated faster than the speed at which the seasons change—who knew that peach was summer’s new pink? And seriously, that coat is so last month. Keep up, will ya?

 

The problem is, I think, that the impeccability and composure which we try to communicate with our attires also has the effect of creating a barrier, a cold detachment whereby people come across as cold, unapproachable and stuck up…which is totally ridiculous, because many people here are just as laid-back, quirky and unique as one might hope. And yet, isn’t it sad that so much of our ‘character’ seems to be reflected in what we wear? I think, what would we do if it weren’t for our colourful, trendy shawls, Louis-Vuitton handbags or brand-new hightops? Indeed, what would we be? I would love to dare our entire student community to ‘be ourselves’ when wearing nothing but a pair of jeans and white cotton t-shirts. No accessories allowed. Would we still be able to show our ‘character’? Imagine if we all walked around town naked and we only had our actual characters to fend for ourselves and the image of ourselves we want to project. It makes me scared just to turn this possibility into a silly hypothesis, and believe me, I am trying not to be hypocritical—my own wardrobe has undergone some serious transformations during my time here.

 

Worse still, I think, is the experience I’ve had of late. Because I feel that as I put on my clothes in the morning and slap some make up onto my cheeks, I’m covered, there’s no need to make any extra effort to ‘be’. I put on my ‘Fran costume’ and go about life immersed in my head and looking out only in times of need—what are we doing to our bodies? I realise, not without some preoccupation, that we really do treat them like shells. I wish we could all let down a little, you know, literally let our hair down and realise that whatever clothes we put on might not safeguard us indeterminately. Not that it is a concern for most people here, but it is perhaps worthwhile to consider our options if, God forbid, one day we wouldn’t be able to afford keeping up with the latest trends. It wouldn’t be like walking around naked, but we would definitely have to stop relying on just our shells.

Is it a hickey or a bruise?

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

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

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

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

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

Peter Pan Syndrome

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mexi-coma

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

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

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

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

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

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

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